RICHARD    BRINSLEY  SHERIDAN. 
{From  the  Portrait  by  Reynolds.} 


SHERIDAN'S   COMEDIES 


THE  RIVALS 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL 


EDITED 

WITH  AN  INTRODUCTION  AND  NOTES  TO  EACH 
PLAY,  AND  A  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH 

BY 
BRANDER   MATTHEWS 

PROFESSOR   OF   DRAMATIC    LITERATURE 
IN   COLUMBIA   UNIVERSITY 


NEW   YORK 

THOMAS   Y.    CROWELL   &    CO. 
PUBLISHERS 


J 


COPYRIGHT,  1884, 
BY  JAMES  R.  OSGOOD  AND  CO. 

COPYRIGHT,  1904, 
BY  THOMAS  Y.  CROWELL  &  CO. 


TO 

AUSTIN    DOBSON 

PfYT*^  777£    GIFT  OF  COMEDY 

THIS   EDITION   OF   SHERIDAN'S   PIAYS 

IS   INSCRIBED 
BY   HIS   FRIEND   THE    EDITOR 


M41093 


PREFACE. 

"  To  read  a  good  comedy  is  to  keep  the  best 
company  in  the  world,  where  the  best  things  are 
said,  and  the  most  amusing  happen,"  —  so  Hazlitt 
tells  us.  Sheridan's  two  great  comedies  are  seen 
on  the  stage  to-day  more  often  than  any  two  plays 
of  any  other  dramatist,  not  excepting  Shakspere ; 
it  may  be  doubted  whether  even  '  Hamlet '  is  acted 
more  than  the  '  School  for  Scandal.'  They  are  read 
as  freely  and  frequently  and  with  as  much  pleasure 
as  are  the  plays  of  any  English  dramatist,  with  the 
sole  exception  of  Shakspere.  Neither  the  '  Rivals  ' 
nor  the  '  School  for  Scandal '  is  one  of  the  eigh- 
teenth-century classics  which,  like  the  Spectator  and 
the  Rambler,  like  *  Rasselas,'  and  perhaps,  alas ! 
the  '  Vicar  of  Wakefield,'  is  taken  on  trust  and 
read  by  title  only,  like  a  bill  before  the  House. 
And  yet,  although  they  bear  their  hundred  years 
bravely,  although  they  are  acted  half  a  thousand 
times  in  succession  at  one  theatre,  although  they 
continue  to  come  out  in  new  editions  for  the  table 


VI  PREFACE. 

of  the  library  and  for  the  pocket  of  the  traveller, 
they  have  not  hitherto  received  the  careful  editing 
which  the  classics  of  the  drama  deserve  and  demand. 

To  present  Sheridan's  plays  in  a  pure  text,  with 
all  needful  illustrative  notes,  with  short  introductions 
setting  forth  their  history,  and  with  a  biographical 
sketch  of  their  author,  so  that  the  reader  might  be 
provided  with  whatever  is  necessary  for  the  full 
enjoyment  of  these  centenarian  comedies,  —  this  is 
the  object  of  the  present  edition. 

For  the  text,  I  have  followed  that  of  the  edition 
of  two  volumes  octavo,  published  in  1821  with  a 
preface  by  Moore.  For  the  brief  biography  of 
Sheridan  I  need  say  little :  it  is  the  result  of  origi- 
nal research  and  it  contains  few  second-hand  facts ; 
but  so  carefully  has  the  ground  been  gleaned 
by  earlier  writers,  that  I  can  claim  as  my  own  by 
right  of  discovery  only  the  explanation  of  the  means 
whereby  Sheridan  became  the  owner  of  Drury  Lane 
Theatre ;  —  and  even  the  solution  of  this  problem 
is  plausible  and  probable  rather  than  absolutely 
certain. 

I  take  pleasure  in  thanking  here,  RICHARD  BRINS- 
LEY  SHERIDAN,  Esq.,  of  Frampton  Court,  Dorchester, 
for  the  courtesy  and  consideration  with  which  he 
allowed  me  to  examine  the  manuscripts  of  his  grand- 


PREFACE.  Vii 

father  now  in  his  possession.  My  thanks  are  also 
due  to  my  friends  LAURENCE  HUTTON  and  H.  C. 
BUNNER,  for  the  invaluable  aid  they  have  kindly 
given  me  in  the  preparation  of  these  pages  for  the 

PreSS'  B.  M. 

NEW  YORK, 
October,  18840 

P.S.  Since  this  preface  was  written,  now  nearly 
a  score  of  years  ago,  several  biographies  of  Sheridan 
have  been  published,  —  one,  exhaustive  and  admira- 
ble, by  Mr.  W.  Fraser  Rae.  The  present  sketch  has 
now  been  somewhat  revised  in  the  light  cast  by 
these  later  books.  The  tentative  explanation,  first 
suggested  in  these  pages,  as  to  the  way  in  which 
Sheridan  was  enabled  to  get  control  of  Drury  Lane 
Theatre,  has  been  adopted  by  Mr.  Rae. 

B.  M. 

NEW  YORK, 

April,  1904. 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH  OF  RICHARD  BRINSLEY  SHERIDAN  xi 

THE  RIVALS. 

INTRODUCTION Ivii 

AUTHOR'S  PREFACE  .        .        .        .        .        .        .  Ixxv 

DRAMATIS  PERSONS 2 

FIRST  PROLOGUE:    BY  THE  AUTHOR         ...  3 

SECOND  PROLOGUE:    BY  THE  AUTHOR     ...  5 

THE  RIVALS:   A  COMEDY 7 

EPILOGUE:   BY  THE  AUTHOR in 

THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL. 

INTRODUCTION 115 

DRAMATIS  PERSONS 134 

A  PORTRAIT  :    ADDRESSED  TO   MRS.   CREWE.      BY 

R.  B.  SHERIDAN,  ESQ 135 

PROLOGUE:   BY  MR.  GARRICK  .        .        .        .        -139 
THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL:   A  COMEDY         .        .141 

EPILOGUE:   BY  MR.  COLMAN 250 

NOTES       .                                        253 

ix 


V 


RICHARD  BRINSLEY  SHRIDAN. 


RICHARD  BRINSLEY  BUTLER  SHERIDAN,  dramatist, 
orator,  and  wit,  was  born  at  No.  12  Dorset  Street, 
Dublin,  Ireland,  in  September,  1751.  He  died  in 
Savile  Row,  London,  England,  July  7,  1816,  and  was 
buried  in  the  Poets'  Corner  of  Westminster  Abbey. 

"  Most  men,"  says  Sainte-Beuve,  "  have  not  read 
those  whom  they  judge  ;    they  have  a  ready-made 
opinion  got  by  word  of   mouth,  one  scarcely  knows 
how."     No  one  has  suffered  more  from  these  off- 
hand  judgments  than    Richard    Brinsley  Sheridan. 
A  ready-made  opinion  of  a  man  who  found  so  many 
and  such  various  means  of    expressing  himself,  an 
opinion  got  by  word  of  mouth,  one  hardl^lgaaw^hpw, 
can  scarcely  be  other  than  unjust.    'The  case  against! 
Sheridan,  as  a  man  of  letters,  may  be  briefly  stated.: 
\It  is  substantially,  that  he  stole  the  characters  and| 
jthe  plots  of  his  plays,  that  he  pilfered  the  points  of  | 
his  speeches,  and  that  he  prepared  his  jokes  in  ad-j 
jvance,  appropriating  to  his  own  use  any  Jest  he  found 
—  j,,  ±~  u:«  i — j    -^Fi:  _„!  £or  faG  prosecution 


once  got  access  to  a  British  review,  and  declared 
with  forensic  emphasis  that  Sheridan  was  "  a  plod- 
ding and  heavy  Beaumarchais,  with  all  the  tricks, 
but  without  the  genuine  brightness  and  originality 
of  the  Frenchman."  When  one  reads  a  solemn  state- 
ment like  this,  the  question  forms  itself  of  its  own 
accord  :  Was  he  really  plodding  and  heavy  and  with- 


xil  RICHARD  BRINSLEY  SHERIDAN. 

out  brightness  ?     Had  he  no  originality  of  his  own  ? 

Was  he  a  wit,  or  had  he  none  ?     To  a__gu^stiorL_piit 

_Jhus  bluntly  the  answer  ^..fa^^SEeridanze/^  a  \ 

V~wit  '•'•>    and  he  was  but  little  else.     As  far  as  mere     j 

\wit  could  carry  him,  Sheridan  went,  and  but,  little,  . 

jfarther.  'He  had  wit  raised  to  the  zenith,  and  he" 

"could  bend  it  to  his  bidding.     In  his  early  youth 

poetry  of  the  Pope  period  was  in  fashion  ;  Sheridan 

set  his  wits  to  work  and  brought  forth  Papal  verse, 

quite  as  infallible  as  any  made  in  his  time.     A  little 

later  he  saw  that  through  the  stage  door  lay  the 

shortest  way  to  fame  and  fortune  ;    and  he  wrote 

plays  brimful  of  a  wit  which  even  now,  after  the 

lapse  of  a  century  and  more,  is  well  nigh  as  fresh  as 

when  it  was  first  penned.     When  in  after  years  he 

went  to  Parliament  and  needs  must  be  an  orator, 

again  his  wit  was  equal  to  the  task,  and  he  delivered 

orations  which  the  great  speakers,  in  that  time  of 

great  speakers,  declared   to  be  unsurpassed.     Had 

any  other  call  been  made  on  his  wits,  they  would 

have  done  their  best^andiheir  best  would  haYeJaeen 

good  indeed.     Whatever  he  produced,  poem,  or  play,  I 

\    or  speech,  was  but  the  chameleon  expression  of  his) 

\  wit.     If  in  intellectual  quality  any  of  his  work  was/ 

\  thin,  in  quantity  it  was  full  beyond  all  cavil.  r^Kfr 


in,  in  quantity  it  was  full  beyond 
wone~ever  more  truly  —  to  use  the  phrase  with  no  in- 
vidious intent  —  no  one  ever  more  truly  lived  on  his 
wits  than  Sheridan,  not  even  the  arch  wit,  M.  de 
Voltaire,  or  the  Caron  de  Beaumarchais  to  whom  the 
stolid  British  reviewer  deemed  him  inferior. 


I. 

Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan  was  the  son  of  Thomas 
and    Frances   Sheridan,  and   the   grandson  of   Dr. 


A   BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH.  xiii 

Sheridan,  the  friend  and  correspondent  of  Swift. 
Thomas  Sheridan  was  a  teacher  of  elocution,  a 
player,  a  manager,  a  lexicographer,  and  altogether 
an  odd  character.  He  thought  himself  a  greater 
actor  than  David  Garrick,  and  the  author  of  a  better 
dictionary  than  Samuel  Johnson's.  He  seems  to  have 
had  no  great  love  for  Richard  Brinsley,  and  to  have 
given  the  boy  little  care.  Frances  Sheridan  was  a 
woman  of  singular  gifts  and  singular  charm.  Gar- 
rick  and  Johnson  liked  her,  although  they  did  not 
like  her  husband ;  and  they  appreciated  her  remark- 
able literary  merits.  Garrick  brought  out  and  acted 
in  the  '  Discovery,'  a  comedy  of  hers  ;  and  Dr.  John- 
son praised  her  novel,  the  '  Memoirs  of  Miss  Sidney 
Biddulph,'  saying  he  knew  not  if  she  had  a  right,  on 
moral  principles,  to  make  her  readers  suffer  so  much. 
It  can  scarcely  be  doubted  that  her  influence  upon 
her  son's  character  would  have  been  highly  benefi- 
cial ;  but  unfortunately  he  was  not  always  with  her, 
and  she  died  in  1766,  when  he  was  only  fifteen  years 
old.  The  absence  of  parental  care  left  a  fatal  im- 
press on  his  character,  and  it  is  to  his  unregulated 
youth  that  we  may  ascribe  most  of  the  wanderings, 
the  missteps,  and  the  mishaps  of  his  manhood. 

When  the  boy  was  seven  years  of  age  he  was 
placed  at  school  with  Mr.  Thomas  Whyte,  who  was 
afterward  the  teacher  of  Sheridan's  biographer, 
Moore.  Here  he  was  considered  a  dunce.  The 
next  year,  in  1759,  the  family  removed  to  England,; 
and  in  1762  Richard  Brinsley  was  sent  to  Harrow, 
where  he  remained  for  about  three  years.  He  was 
popular  with  his  school-fellows,  and  his  teachers 
believed  in  his  ability.  He  showed  already  the  indo- 
lence which  was  always  one  of  his  most  marked  char- 
acteristics, and  which  he  possessed  in  conjunction. 


Xiv  RICHARD  BRINSLEY  SHERIDAN. 

curiously  enough,  with  an  extraordinary  power  of 
application  whenever  he  was  aroused  by  an  adequate 
motive.  He  seems  to  have  acquired  some  under- 
standing of  Latin  and  Greek.  He  formed  many 
friendships  at  Harrow.  The  chief  partner  of  his 
youthful  sports  and  studies  was  Nathaniel  Brassey 
Halhed,  with  whom  he  translated  the  seventh  idyl  of 
Theocritus  and  many  of  the  minor  poems  credited 
to  that  "  singer  of  the  field  and  fold." 

In  1769  the  elder  Sheridan  returned  to  London 
from  France  with  his  favourite  son,  Charles  ;  and  call- 
ing Richard  to  his  side,  he  began  to  instruct  both 
boys  in  English  grammar  and  in  oratory.  "  They 
attended  also  the  fencing  and  riding  schools  of  Mr. 
Angelo,"  who  has  recorded  the  fretful  dignity  of 
Thomas  Sheridan,  and  the  geniality  and  good  humour 
of  his  younger  son.  In  the  middle  of  1770  the 
Sheridans  moved  to  Bath,  a  hot-bed  of  fast  and 
fashionable  society,  and  about  as  unsuitable  and 
unwholesome  a  place  as  could  be  imagined  for 
a  young  man  of  eighteen  with  Richard  Brinsley 
Sheridan's  lack  of  training  and  want  of  prospects. 
He  kept  up  a  lively  correspondence  with  Hal- 
hed, who  was  then  at  Oxford.  The  friends  were 
ambitious  and  hopeful ;  and  they  determined  to  at- 
tempt literature  together,  fondly  dreaming  that  they 
might  awake  one  morning  and  find  themselves  fa- 
mous. They  planned  a  play  and  a  periodical  paper ; 
Halhed  wrote  most  of  the  former,  and  Sheridan 
sketched  out  the  only  number  of  the  latter  which 
Moore  could  discover.  Then  they  attempted  a  metri- 
cal version  of  the  love-epistles  credited  to  the  Greek 
sophist,  Aristaenetus.  It  is  to  be  noted  that  Le  Sage 
also  began  his  literary  life  by  translating  Aristaenetus. 
In  November,  1770,  Halhed  had  made  a  rough  draft;, 


A   BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH.  XV 

it  was  not  until  December  that  Sheridan,  in  his  usual 
dilatory  way,  set  about  his  task  of  revision.  There 
is  a  French  version  (Poictiers,  1597),  but  Sheridan 
had  not  gone  to  France  in  1764  with  the  family; 
he  knew  little  French,  and  he  came  in  time  to  hate 
the  language.  He  took  several  months  over  his 
work,  and  though  the  completed  manuscript  was  to 
have  been  given  to  the  publisher  in  March,  it  was 
not  received  by  him  until  May ;  and  it  was  only  in 
August,  1771,  that  there  appeared  for  sale  "The 
Love  Epistles  of  Aristaenetus,  Translated  from  the 
Greek  into  English  metre." 

"  Love  refines 

The  thoughts,  and  heart  enlarges  ;   hath  his  seat 
In  reason,  and  is  judicious." 

—  MILTON,  Paradise  Lost,  Book  8. 

"London:  Printed  for  J.  Wilkie,  No.  71  St.  Paul's  Church- 
yard. MDCCLXXI." 

The  quotation  from  Milton  we  may  credit  to  Sheri- 
dan ;  it  is  impudently  humorous  in  the  eyes  of  those 
who  know  how  light  and  lively  are  some  of  the  love- 
passages  related  by  the  Greek  tale-teller.  The  trans- 
lation was  anonymous,  and  the  preface  was  signed 
with  the  joint  initials  of  the  young  poets,  H.  S.  It 
is  highly  comic  to  read  that  one  of  the  reviews 
fathered  it  on  "  Mr.  Johnson,  author  of  the  English 
Dictionary,"  etc.  Moore  and  Sheridan's  other  biog- 
raphers agree  in  calling  the  translation  a  failure  in 
that  it  met  with  no  favour  from  the  public.  It  may 
be  that  the  authors  made  no  money  by  it ;  but  it  suc- 
ceeded at  least  in  getting  itself  into  a  second  edition, 
which  does  not  look  exactly  like  flat  failure.  It 
has  since  been  reprinted  with  Propertius,  Petronius 
Arbiter,  and  Johannes  Secundus,  in  a  volume  of 


xvi  RICHARD  BRINSLEY  SHERIDAN. 

Bohn's  Classical  Library.  Halhed  soon  after  went 
to  India,  where  he  wrote  a  volume  of  imitations  of 
Martial,  and  began  to  be  known  as  a  distinguished 
Orientalist.  Two  original  poems  of  Sheridan's  were 
published  in  the  Bath  Chronic7e  during  this  year. 
One  was  a  description  of  the  beauties  of  Bath,  called 
'  Clio's  Protest;  or  the  Picture  Varnished,'  being  an 
answer  to  some  verses  called  the  '  Bath  Picture  ' ; 
and  the  second  was  a  humorous  description  of  the 
opening  of  the  new  Assembly  Rooms,  '  An  Epistle 
from  Timothy  Screw,  to  his  brother  Henry,  Waiter 
at  Almack's.' 

There  was  at  Bath  at  this  time  a  family  of  Linleys, 
all  musicians  of  marked  ability.  The  eldest  daughter, 
Miss  Elizabeth  Linley,  was  as  beautiful  to  see  as  to 
hear.  She  was  between  sixteen  and  seventeen  when 
Sheridan  first  met  her.  She  was  sought  by  many 
suitors,  good  and  evil,  young  and  old.  Among  them 
were  Sheridan's  elder  brother  Charles,  Halhed,  a 
Mr.  Long,  to  wrhom  her  parents  engaged  her,  and  a 
Captain  Mathews,  who  happened  to  have  a  \vife 
already.  Charles  Sheridan  gave  up  the  struggle 
and  wrote  Miss  Linley  a  letter  of  farewell.  Halhed 
soon  sailed  for  India.  To  Mr.  Long  she  secretly 
represented  that  she  could  never  be  happy  as  his 
wife,  and  he  magnanimously  took  on  himself  the 
blame  of  breaking  off  the  match  and  appeased  her 
parents  by  settling  three  thousand  pounds  on  her. 
Captain  Mathews  —  who  is  best  remembered  now 
as  the  writer  of  an  epoch-making  manual  upon  the 
game  of  whist  —  was  not  as  generous  or  as  readily 
got  rid  of ;  he  persecuted  her  incessantly ;  until  at 
last  she  confided  in  Sheridan,  who  expostulated  in 
vain  with  the  married  rake.  To  avoid  him  she  re- 
solved to  take  refuge  in  a  convent  in  France :  this 


A   BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH.  xvii 

was  early  in  1772.  Sheridan  offered  to  accompany 
her ;  and  when  they  had  reached  France  he  per- 
suaded her  to  marry  him.  After  the  idle  ceremony 
he  placed  her  in  a  convent  at  Lisle,  where  she  fell 
sick,  and  where  her  father  found  her. 

It  was  known  at  Bath  that  Miss  Linley  and  Sheri- 
dan had  disappeared  together ;  one  rumour  had  it 
that  they  had  "  set  off  on  a  matrimonial  expedition 
to  Scotland."  The  baffled  Captain  Mathews  blus- 
tered boldly  during  Sheridan's  absence,  and  even 
published  an  abusive  advertisement.  When  Sheridan 
returned  to  England  with  Miss  Linley  and  her  father, 
he  called  Mathews  out  at  once.  The  elder  Angelo 
had  instructed  Sheridan  in  "  the  use  of  the  small 
sword,  and  it  was  in  consequence  of  the  skill  ac- 
quired under  this  tuition  that  he  acquitted  himself 
with  so  much  address  when  opposed  to  the  captain, 
whose  reputation  was  well  known  in  the  circles  of 
fashion  as  an  experienced  swordsman."  Despite 
this  reputation,  Captain  Mathews  seems  to  have 
been  a  coward  as  well  as  a  bully.  At  first  he  dodged 
the  duel ;  and  when  it  was  fought  he  begged  his  life 
and  wrote  an  ample  apology.  Immediately  after  he 
lied  about  the  affair.  At  last  things  were  so  hot 
around  about  him,  that  he  was  constrained  to  chal- 
lenge Sheridan  to  a  second  meeting,  at  which  Sheri- 
dan was  badly  wounded.  Angelo  notes  that  Mathews 
had  learned  fencing  in  France  and  was  considered 
very  skilful;  and  he  recollected  "  Dick  Sheridan 
(his  appellation  then)  shewing  me  a  wound  in  his 
neck,  then  in  a  sore  state,  which  he  told  me  he  had 
received  from  his  antagonist  on  the  ground"  Plainly 
enough  Mathews  had  the  best  of  the  second  duel, 
although  Sheridan's  courage  was  beyond  question, 
and  he  refused  to  beg  his  life.  After  his  recovery 


xviii          RICHARD  BRINSLEY  SHERIDAN. 

he  was  sent  into  the  country,  where  he  remained 
until  the  spring  of  the  next  year,  1773.  During  ail 
this  time  his  father  and  Miss  Linley's  were  deter- 
mined to  keep  them  apart.  Moore  tells  us,  that 
Sheridan  contrived  many  stratagems  "  for  the  pur- 
pose of  exchanging  a  few  words  with  her,  and  that 
he  more  than  once  disguised  himself  as  a  hackney- 
coachman,  and  drove  her  home  from  the  theatre," 
where  she  had  been  singing.  At  last  Mr.  Linley 
yielded,  and  they  were  married  by  license,  April  13, 
1773,  after  a  courtship  as  romantic  in  its  vicissitudes 
as  Miss  Lydia  Languish  or  Miss  Blanche  Amory 
could  possibly  wish. 

Mrs.  Sheridan  was  perhaps  the  most  gifted  of  a 
gifted  family.  Dr.  Burney  refers  to  the  Lin  leys  "  as 
a  nest  of  singing-birds  " ;  and  Michael  Kelly  re- 
cords that  Mozart  spoke  in  high  terms  of  the  talents 
of  Mrs.  Sheridan's  brother.  Her  services  were  in 
good  demand  as  a  singer  of  oratorios,  and  might 
have  been  rewarded  sufficiently  to  support  the  young 
couple  in  ease,  if  not  in  affluence.  But  Sheridan 
was  not  a  man  to  live  at  his  wife's  apron-strings,  or 
to  grow  fat  on  the  money  she  earned.  With  manly 
pride  he  refused  all  offers,  and  declined  even  to 
allow  her  to  fulfil  the  engagements  made  for  her  by 
her  father  before  the  marriage.  This  was  honourable 
and  high-minded,  but  it  deprived  them  of  a  certain 
income.  Dr.  Johnson's  praise  might  please  Sheri- 
dan's heart, — if  it  was  reported  to  him,  —  but  it 
could  not  fill  his  stomach.  With  abundant  belief  in 
himself,  Sheridan  meant  to  make  his  own  way  in  the 
world  and  to  owe  his  support  to  his  own  hand.  He 
had  nothing,  not  even  a  serious  education.  He  had 
been  entered  a  student  of  the  Middle  Temple  just 
before  his  marriage,  but  he  had  not  pursued  the  law 


A   BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH.  xix 

further.  Without  money,  and  without  a  profession, 
but  with  a  full  confidence  in  himself,  and  a  heredi- 
tary connection  with  the  theatre,  it  is  no  wonder 
that  Sheridan  determined  to  write  for  the  stage.  His 
father  was  an  actor  and  a  manager,  and  had  written 
one  play  ;  and  his  mother  had  written  several.  With 
these  antecedents  and  the  reputation  of  ability  which 
he  had  already  achieved  somehow,  he  was  asked  by 
Harris,  the  manager  of  Covent  Garden  Theatre,  to 
write  a  comedy. 

II. 

The  time  was  most  propitious  for  the  appearance 
of  a  new  comic  author.  The  works  of  Wycherley, 
Vanbrugh,  Farquhar,  and  Congreve  were  falling,  or 
had  already  fallen,  out  of  the  list  of  acting  plays. 
Evelina  blushed  at  the  dialogue  of  Congreve 's  '  Love 
for  Love,'  and  was  ashamed  at  the  plot.  Only  Sheri- 
dan himself  could  make  Vanbrugh's  '  Relapse  '  pre- 
sentable. Farquhar  and  Wycherley  fared  but  little 
better,  though  the  '  Country  Wife  '  of  the  latter,  dis- 
infected into  something  like  decency  by  the  skilful 
touch  of  Garrick,  retained  sufficient  vitality  to  linger 
on  the  stage,  under  the  name  of  the  '  Country  Girl.' 
There  were  many  symptoms  of  a  rapid  improve- 
ment in  virtue  and  of  an  evolution  in  morals  ;  and  this 
helped  to  make  the  way  straight  before  the  feet  of 
a  new  dramatist  who  could  keep  his  eye  on  the  signs 
of  the  times.  The  comedies  of  Congreve  and 
Wycherley,  Farquhar  and  Vanbrugh,  seem  to  have 
been  written  to  show  that  the  true  road  to  happiness 
was  to  hate  your  neighbour  and  to  love  your  neigh- 
bour's wife.  Sydney  Smith  said  that  their  morality 
was  "  that  every  witty  man  may  transgress  the 
seventh  commandment,  which  was  never  meant  for 


XX  RICHARD  BRINSLEY  SHERIDAN. 

the  protection  of  husbands  who  labour  under  the 
incapacity  of  making  repartees."  And  Taine,  with 
all  his  French  tolerance  for  wit,  is  disgusted  with  the 
indecency  of  the  comic  writers  of  the  Restoration, 
and  says,  "We  hold  our  nose  and  read  on."  The 
times  were  ripe  for  a  new  writer. 

Few  of  the  dramatists  of  the  day  were  formidable 
rivals.  The  one  man  who  might  have  been  a  com- 
petitor to  be  feared,  a  fellow  Irishman, — for,  as 
Latin  comedy  was  imitated  from  the  Greek,  and  as 
French  comedy  was  modelled  upon  the  Italian,  so  Eng- 
lish comedy  has  in  great  part  been  written  by  Irish- 
men, —  the  author  of  the  '  Good-natured  Man,'  Oliver 
Goldsmith,  died  in  1774*  *  She  Stoops  to  Conquer,' 
produced  the  year  befofe,  had  scotched  Sentimental- 
Comedy,  an  imported  French  fashion,  which  was 
slowly  strangling  the  life  out  of  the  comic  muse  ;  and 
although  Sheridan,  in  the  '  Rivals,'  might  choose  to 
do  obeisance  to  this  passing  fancy  by  the  introduc- 
tion of  those  two  most  tedious  persons,  Faulkland 
and  Julia,  he  was  soon  to  repent  him  of  his  sins,  and 
in  the  '  School  for  Scandal '  deal  it  a  final  and  fatal 
blow.  Cumberland,  the  sole  survivor  of  the  school, 
had  but  little  life  left  in  him  after  the  appearance  of 
the  '  Critic '  ;  and  no  life  is  now  left  in  his^  plays, 
which  have  hardly  seen  the  light  of  the  lamps  these 
four-score  years.  Better  luck  has  attended  the  more 
worthy  work  of  George  Colman  the  elder,  the  author 
of  the  '  Jealous  Wife,'  and  of  David  Garrick,  the  author 
possibly  of  '  High  Life  Below  Stairs,'  who  had  also 
collaborated  in  the  '  Clandestine  Marriage ' ;  these 
three  plays  keep  the  stage  to  this  day.  But  in  1775 
both  Colman  and  Garrick  had  ceased  to  write  for 
the  theatre.  The  coarse,  vigorous,  hardy  satires 
of  Samuel  Foote,  and  the  namby-pamby  tragedies 


A   BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH.  xxi 

and  wishy-washy  comedies  —  "  not  translations  only, 
taken  from  the  French  "  —  of  Arthur  Murphy,  were 
alike  beginning  to  pall  upon  playgoers.  Among  all 
these  dramatists,  and  greater  than  any  of  them, 
appeared  the  author  of  the  'Rivals.' 

Although  written  hastily  at  the  request  of  Harris, 
the  manager  of  Covent  Garden  Theatre,  the  *  Rivals  ' 
was  not  wholly  a  new  composition  ;  it  is  rather  an 
elaboration  of  earlier  sketches  and  inchoate  memo- 
randums jotted  down  by  Sheridan  at  various  times 
after  he  was  seventeen  years  old,  when  the  hope  of 
gaining  independence  by  writing  for  the  stage  first 
flitted  before  his  eyes.  And  this  reworking  of  ac- 
cumulated old  material  was  characteristic  of  Sheri- 
dan throughout  life,  and  in  whatever  department  of 
literature  he  might  venture  himself.  His  poems,  his 
plays,  his  jests,  and  his  speeches  abound  in  phrases 
and  suggestions  set  down  years  before.  Sheridan 
must  needs  have  had  aid  from  earlier  work,  since 
we  find  him  telling  his  father-in-law,  November  17, 
1774,  that  he  would  have  the  comedy  in  rehearsal  in 
a  few  days,  and  that  he  had  not  written  a  line  of  it 
two  months  before,  "  except  a  scene  or  two,  which 
I  believe  you  have  seen  in  an  odd  act  of  a  little 
farce."  Haste  of  composition  is  shown  in  the  inor- 
dinate bulk  of  the  play,  which  was  at  least  double 
the  length  of  any  acting  comedy  —  so  Sheridan  tells  us 
in  the  preface  —  when  he  put  it  into  Harris's  hands. 
"  I  profited  by  his  judgment  and  experience  in  the  cur- 
tailing of  it,  till,  I  believe,  his  feeling  for  the  vanity 
of  a  young  author  got  the  better  of  his  desire  for  cor- 
rectness, and  he  left  many  excrescences  remaining 
because  he  had  assisted  in  pruning  so  many  more. 
Hence,  though  I  was  not  uninformed  that  the  acts 
were  still  too  long,  I  flattered  myself  that,  after  the 


xxil  RICHARD  BRINSLEY  SHERIDAN. 

first  trial,  I  might  with  safer  judgment  proceed  to 
remove  what  should  appear  to  have  been  most  dis- 
satisfactory." 

The  '  Rivals  '  was  first  acted  at  Covent  Garden 
Theatre  on  the  evening  of  January  17,  1775,  and  it 
was  damned  out  of  hand.  It  was  repeated  the  next 
night,  and  then  withdrawn  for  repairs.  A  change 
of  front  in  the  face  of  the  enemy  is  always  a  risky 
experiment,  but  Sheridan  operated  it  successfully. 
Lightened  of  the  feebler  scenes  by  condensation, 
and  strengthened  by  the  substitution  of  Clinch  as 
Sir  Lucius  O 'Trigger  for  Lee,  who  had  acted  the  part 
very  badly,  the  '  Rivals '  was  again  offered  to  the 
public,  and  was  acted  fourteen  or  fifteen  times  be- 
fore the  season  closed  on  June  i.  On  the  tenth 
night  a  new  prologue  was  spoken  by  Mrs.  Bulkley, 
in  which  Sheridan  made  adroit  use  of  the  figures  of 
Comedy  and  Tragedy,  which  stood  on  each  side 
of  the  stage,  and  defended  his  use  of  broader  comic 
effects  than  the  partisans  of  Sentimental-Comedy 
could  tolerate.  After  the  first  few  nights,  however, 
the  '  Rivals  '  picked  up  and  held  its  own.  Its  brisk 
and  bristling  action,  its  highly  ingenious  equivoke, 
its  broadly  limned  and  sharply  contrasted  characters, 
its  close  sequence  of  highly  comic  situations  —  all 
these  soon  began  to  tell  with  the  public,  and  the  piece 
became  one  of  the  first  favourites  of  the  playgoer. 

As  Goldsmith  had  shown  his  gratitude  to  Quick, 
who  acted  Tony  Lumpkin  to  his  satisfaction,  by 
signing  the  t  Grumbler,'  an  adaptation  of  the  '  Gron- 
deur '  of  Brueys,  acted  for  Quick's  benefit,  so  Sheri- 
dan, in  gratitude  to  Clinch,  who  had  bravely  lent 
his  aid  to  pluck  the  flower  success  from  the  nettle 
danger,  wrote  '  St.  Patrick's  Day ;  or  the  Scheming 
Lieutenant,'  a  farce  in  two  acts,  produced  for 


A   BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH.  xxiii 

Clinch's  benefit,  May  2,  1775,  and  acted  six  times 
before  the  close  of  the  season  at  the  end  of  the 
month.  *  St.  Patrick's  Day '  is  a  lively  enough  little 
play,  of  no  great  consequence  or  merit,  owing  some- 
thing in  the  conduct  of  its  plot  and  the  comicality 
of  its  situations  to  Moliere,  and  containing  only  a 
few  of  the  brilliant  flashes  of  wit  which  we  are  wont 
to  consider  as  Sheridan's  especial  property. 

Sheridan  devoted  the  summer  to  the  writing  of  a 
comic  opera,  the  music  for  which  was  selected  and 
composed  by  his  father-in-law,  Mr.  Linley.  "  We 
owe  to  Gay, "said  Dr.  Johnson,  "  the  ballad-opera  — 
a  mode  of  comedy  which  at  first  was  supposed  to 
delight  only  by  its  novelty,  but  has  now,  by  the 
experience  of  half  a  century,  been  so  well  accommo- 
dated to  the  disposition  of  a  popular  audience  that 
it  is  likely  to  keep  long  possession  of  the  stage." 
And  of  all  ballad-operas,  Gay's  first  was  easily  the 
foremost  until  this  of  Sheridan's ;  the  '  Beggar's 
Opera '  had  no  real  rival  until  the  production  of  the 
'  Duenna.'  While,  however,  the  '  Beggar's  Opera  ' 
owed  part  of  its  extraordinary  vogue  to  its  personal 
and  political  satire,  the  '  Duenna '  had  no  political 
purport ;  its  only  aim  was  to  please,  and  in  this  it 
succeeded  abundantly.  Brought  out  originally  at 
Covent  Garden  on  November  21,  1775,  it  was  per- 
formed seventy-five  times  during  the  ensuing  season 
—  an  extraordinary  number  in  those  days  —  twelve 
more  than  the  '  Beggar's  Opera '  had  achieved.  In 
order  to  counteract  this  great  success  of  the  rival 
house,  Garrick,  then  the  manager  of  Drury  Lane,  as 
Moore  tells  us,  "  found  it  necessary  to  bring  forward 
all  the  weight  of  his  own  best  characters,  and  even 
had  recourse  to  the  expedient  of  playing  off  the 
mother  against  the  son,  by  reviving  Mrs.  Frances 


xxiv         RICHARD  BRINSLEY  SHERIDAN. 

Sheridan's  comedy  of  the  i  Discovery,'  and  acting 
the  principal  part  in  it  himself.  In  allusion  to  the 
increased  fatigue  which  this  competition  with  the 
'  Duenna '  brought  upon  Garrick,  who  was  then 
entering  on  his  sixtieth  year,  it  was  said  by  an  actor 
of  the  day  that  "  the  old  woman  would  be  the  death 
of  the  old  man." 

The  '  Rivals,'  '  St.  Patrick's  Day,'  and  the  '  Du- 
enna '  —  a  comedy  in  five  acts,  a  farce  in  two  acts, 
and  a  comic  opera  in  three  acts  —  were  all  produced 
in  the  year  1775  at  Covent  Garden  Theatre.  Before 
the  run  of  the  *  Duenna '  was  ended,  Sheridan  was  in 
negotiation  with  Garrick  for  the  purchase,  in  con- 
junction with  Linley  and  Dr.  Ford,  of  the  great 
actor's  half  of  Drury  Lane  Theatre.  Although  Gar- 
rick and  Thomas  Sheridan  were  rival  actors  and 
never  exactly  hit  it  off  together,  the  former  always 
had  a  cordial  esteem  for  Mrs.  Sheridan,  and  he  was 
prepared  to  carry  this  over  to  her  son.  So  when  he 
made  up  his  mind  to  give  up  acting  and  to  abandon 
management,  he  was  ready  to  think  well  of  Sheridan's 
offer  to  buy  him  out.  Colman,  to  whom  the  manage- 
ment was  first  offered,  would  purchase  solely  on  con- 
dition that  he  could  buy  the  whole  ;  Garrick  was  only 
half  owner,  and  young  Lacey,  who  had  the  other  half, 
refused  to  sell.  While  Garrick  was  giving  his  fare- 
well performances,  the  negotiations  with  Sheridan 
were  pending.  The  great  actor  —  probably  the 
greatest  who  ever  trod  the  stage  —  spoke  his  last 
speech  and  made  his  last  exit  on  June  10,  1776  ;  and 
on  June  24,  so  Davies  tells  us,  he  signed  the  contract 
of  sale  to  Sheridan,  Linley,  and  Ford.  By  twenty- 
eight  years  of  good  management  the  value  of  Drury 
Lane  Theatre  had  been  trebled,  and  the  selling  price 
was  fixed  at  ^70,000,  or  ^35,000  for  Garrick's  half. 


A   BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH.  XXV 

Sheridan  and  Linley  were  to  find  ^10,000  each,  and 
their  friend  Dr.  Ford  was  to  supply  the  remaining 
^15,000.  Where  Sheridan  raised  the  money  for  his 
share  has  been  one  of  the  mighty  mysteries  of  the- 
atrical history.  There  is  a  general  belief  that  he 
borrowed  —  but  from  whom  ?  Watkins,  his  first 
biographer,  mentions  a  mortgage  to  Dr.  Ford,  and 
suggests  that  Garrick  stood  behind  Ford.  Moore, 
his  second  biographer,  disbelieves  in  and  discredits 
any  loan  from  either  Ford  or  Garrick. 

Nobody  has  yet  cited  the  evidence  of  Sydney 
Smith,  who  said  that  Creevy  told  him  that  once  when 
dining  with  Sheridan,  after  the  ladies  had  departed, 
Sheridan  drew  his  chair  to  the  fire  and  confided  to 
Creevy  that  they  had  just  had  a  fortune  left  to  them. 
"Mrs.  Sheridan  and  I,"  said  he,  " have  made  the 
solemn  vow  to  each  other  to  mention  it  to  no  one, 
and  nothing  induces  me  now  to  confide  it  to  you  but 
the  absolute  conviction  that  Mrs.  Sheridan  is  at  this 
moment  confiding  it  to  Mrs.  Creevy  upstairs."  Now, 
this  may  be  nothing  more  than  the  exaggeration  of 
a  humorist  reported  with  exaggeration  by  another 
humorist.  And  then,  again,  it  maybe  true  ;  it  is  not 
at  all  impossible,  or  even  improbable,  that  a  fortune 
had  been  left  suddenly  and  unexpectedly  to  Sheri- 
dan, or,  more  likely,  to  his  wife  ;  but  there  is  no  other 
reference  to  this  wealth  from  the  skies  ;  and  prob- 
ably the  story  is  not  to  be  taken  seriously.  The 
wonder  as  to  where  Sheridan  got  the  money  to  pay 
for  one-seventh  of  Drury  Lane  Theatre  is  augmented 
and  completed  by  wonder  as  to  how  two  years  or  so 
later  he  got  money  to  buy  out  Lacey's  half  of  the 
theatre.  What  was  a  wonder  to  Sheridan's  contem- 
poraries was  also  a  wonder  to  all  his  biographers, 
until  the  present  writer  adventured  the  following  ex- 
planation :  — 


XXVI         RICHARD  BRINSLEY  SHERIDAN. 

Of  the  original  ,£35,000  paid  Garrick,  Sheridan 
was  to  find  ;£i  0,000.  Dr.  Watkins  asserts  that  he 
raised  ^8700  of  this  ^"10,000  by  two  mortgages, 
one  of  ;£iooo  to  a  Mr.  Wallis,  and  another  of 
^7700  to  Dr.  Ford.  If  we  accept  this  assertion,  — 
and  there  is  no  reason  why  we  should  not,  — all  that 
Sheridan  had  to  make  up  was  ^1300,  a  sum  he 
could  easily  compass  after  the  success  of  the  '  Rivals  ' 
and  the  '  Duenna,'  even  supposing  that  he  did  not 
encroach  on,  or  had  already  exhausted,  the  ^3000 
settled  on  his  wife  by  Mr.  Long.  Before  the  end  of 
1776,  dissensions  arose  between  Sheridan,  Linley, 
and  Ford,  on  one  side,  and  Lacey  on  the  other,  in 
the  course  of  which  Lacey  sought  to  sell  part  of  his 
half  to  two  friends.  But  these  dissensions  were 
ended  in  1778  by  Sheridan's  purchase  of  Lacey 's 
half.  A  note  in  Sheridan's  handwriting,  quoted  by 
Moore,  says  that  Lacey  was  paid  "  a  price  exceeding 
^45,000,"  —  which  would  go  to  show  that  the  total 
value  of  the  property  had  risen  in  two  years  from 
^70,000  to  ^£90,000.  Most  writers  on  the  subject 
have  taken  this  note  of  Sheridan's  to  mean  that  he 
paid  at  least  ^45,000  in  cash,  and  they  have  all  ex- 
hausted their  efforts  in  guessing  where  he  got  the 
money.  But  if  we  compare  Moore's  statement  with 
Watkins 's,  we  get  nearer  a  solution  of  the  difficulty. 
Watkins  says  that  Lacey's  share  was  already  mort- 
gaged for  ,£31,500,  and  that  Sheridan  assumed  this 
mortgage,  and  agreed  further  to  pay  in  return  for  the 
equity  of  redemption,  two  annuities  of  ,£500  each. 
This  double  obligation  (the  mortgage  for  ,£31,500 
and  the  annuities)  represents  "  a  price  exceeding 
^£45,000  "  ;  but  it  did  not  call  for  the  expenditure  of' 
a  single  penny  in  cash.  On  the  contrary  the  pur- 
chase of  Lacey's  half  of  the  theatre  actually  put 


A   BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH.  xxvii 

money  into  Sheridan's  pocket,  for  he  at  once  divided 
his  original  one-seventh  between  Linley  and  Dr. 
Ford,  making  each  of  their  shares  up  to  one-fourth ; 
and  even  if  they  paid  him  no  increase  on  the  original 
price,  he  would  have  been  enabled  to  pay  off  the 
^8700  mortgages  to  Dr.  Ford,  and  to  Mr.  Wallis, 
and  to  get  back  the  ^"1300  which  he  seems  to  have 
advanced  himself.  In  fact,  it  appears  that  Sheridan 
invested  only  ^1300  in  cash  when  he  bought  one- 
seventh  of  Drury  Lane  Theatre,  in  1776,  and  that 
he  received  this  back  when  he  became  possessed  of 
one-half  of  Drury  Lane  Theatre,  in  1778,  then  valued 
at  ^"90,000.  Sheridan  afterward  bought  Dr.  Ford's 
one-fourth  for  ^17,000  ;  and  Moore  found  among 
Sheridan's  papers,  letters  of  remonstrance  from  Dr. 
Ford's  son,  indicating  that  this  debt  had  not  been 
paid  promptly. 

Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan  succeeded  David  Gar- 
rick  as  the  manager  of  Drury  Lane  in  the  middle  of 
1776.  A  sharp  contrast  was  at  once  visible  between 
the  care  and  frugality  of  the  old  management  and 
the  reckless  carelessness  of  the  new.  Garrick 
planned  everything  in  advance  with  the  utmost  skill 
and  forethought,  and  was  never  taken  unawares. 
Sheridan  trusted  to  luck  and  to  prompt  action  on 
the  spur  of  the  moment.  The  elder  Sheridan  be- 
came acting-manager,  a  post  for  which  his  somewhat 
doubtful  temper  more  or  less  unfitted  him.  Garrick 
continued  to  advise  with  Sheridan,  and  probably 
helped  him  in  the  first  important  production  of  the 
new  management,  the  revival  with  judicious  omis- 
sions of  Congreve's  '  Old  Bachelor,'  which  had  not 
been  acted  for  sixteen  years.  The  'Rivals,'  origi- 
nally performed  at  Covent  Garden,  was  now  brought 
out  at  the  theatre  of  which  its  author  was  manager. 


XXviii      RICHARD  BRINSLEY  SHERIDAN. 

Early  in  1777,  on  February  24,  Sheridan  produced 
his  first  new  play  at  his  own  house.  This  was  '  A 
Trip  to  Scarborough,'  and  its  chief  fault  was  that  it 
was  neither  new  nor  Sheridan's,  being  in  fact  a  deo- 
dorized adaptation  of  Vanbrugh's  *  Relapse.'  As  an 
incident  in  the  l  Country  Wife '  of  Wycherley  —  whom 
Sheridan  denied  ever  having  read  —  may  have  sug- 
gested a  chief  scene  of  the  '  Duenna,'  and  as  more 
than  one  scene  of  the  forthcoming  '  School  for  Scan- 
dal '  was  to  recall  Congreve,  it  was  only  fair  that 
Vanbrugh  should  have  his  turn.  Oddly  enough, 
Farquhar  is  the  only  one  of  the  four  foremost  drama- 
tists of  the  Restoration  from  whom  Sheridan  did 
not  borrow  directly ;  and  it  is  Farquhar  with  whom 
he  has  the  most  intellectual  sympathy.  Sir  Walter 
Scott  compares  Sheridan  with  Vanbrugh  and  Con- 
greve, and  Lord  'Macaulay  classes  together  Con- 
greve and  Sheridan  ;  and  yet  it  is  Farquhar  whose 
influence  over  him  is  greatest,  and  whom  he  imitated 
from  afar,  much  as  Thackeray  imitated  Fielding, 
and  Dickens,  Smollett. 

Vanbrugh's  *  Relapse  '  is  hopelessly  unfit  for  the 
modern  stage.  Moore  wonders  that  Sheridan  could 
have  hoped  to  defecate  the  play  and  leave  any  of 
the  wit.  But  Vanbrugh  differs  from  Congreve.  Of 
all  attempts  to  deodorize  Congreve,  Sheridan  said, 
"  Impossible  !  he  is  like  a  horse,  —  deprive  him  of 
his  vice  and  you  rob  him  of  his  vigour."  The  merit 
of  Congreve's  comedy  lies  in  the  dialogue,  while  the 
merit  of  Vanbrugh's  play  lies  rather  in  the  situations  ; 
and  a  cleansing  of  the  conversation  of  Vanbrugh's 
play,  although  it  scoured  off  many  spangles,  still  left 
the  stuff  strong  enough  for  ordinary  wear.  And  it 
is  a  fact  that  although  in  the  beginning  the  l  Trip  to 
Scarborough '  was  a  great  disappointment  to  those 


A   BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH.  xxix 

who  had  hoped  much  from  the  new  manager's  first 
play,  it  was  not  at  all  a  failure,  for  it  soon  recovered 
its  ground  and  held  its  own  for  years.  Geneste 
accepts  it  as  one  of  the  very  best  adaptations  of  old 
comedy,  and  declares  that  "  Sheridan  has  retained 
everything  in  the  original  that  was  worth  retaining, 
has  omitted  what  was  exceptionable,  and  has  im- 
proved it  by  what  he  has  added."  Much  of  its  suc- 
cess was  due,  no  doubt,  to  the  skill  with  which  it  was 
fitted  to  the  chief  actors  of  the  company,  Lord  Fop- 
pington  being  played  by  Dodd,  Miss  Hoyden  by 
Mrs.  Abington,  and  Amanda  by  Mrs.  Robinson,  the 
beautiful  Perdita,  whom  Sheridan  had  coaxed  back 
to  the  stage. 

Like  Shakspere  and  like  Moliere,  Sheridan  was 
both  author  and  manager,  and  like  them  he  wrote 
parts  to  suit  his  players.  Of  this  the  *  School  for 
Scandal '  is  a  far  better  instance  than  the  *  Trip  to 
Scarborough.'  Made  out  of  two  earlier  drafts  of 
plays,  condensed  by  infinite  labour  from  a  mass  of 
inchoate  material,  toiled  over  incessantly,  polished 
and  burnished  until  it  shone  again,  the  '  School  for 
Scandal '  was  at  last  announced  before  the  whole 
play  was  in  the  hands  of  the  actors  —  an  incident 
repeated  with  the  '  Critic,'  and  again  with  '  Pizarro.' 
At  the  end  of  the  hurriedly  finished  rough  draft  of 
the  fifth  act,  Moore  found  a  "  curious  specimen  of 
doxology,  written  hastily,  in  the  handwriting  of  the 
respective  parties  "  :  — 

"  Finished  at  last,  thank  God! 

"  R.  B.  SHERIDAN." 

"  Amen  ! 

"  W.  HOPKINS  "  [the  prompter]. 


XXX          RICHARD  BRINSLEY  SHERIDAN. 

The  'School  for  Scandal'  was  first  performed 
May  841777^  a  little  less  than  a  year  after  the 
purchase>~frtfm  Gairick.  The  acting  of  the  comedy 
was  beyond  all  praise.  Geneste  remarks  that  "  no 
new  performer  ha$  ever  appeared  in  any  one  of  the 
principal  characters,  that  was  not  inferior  to  the  per- 
son who  acted  it<  originally."  The  success  of  the 
comedy  itself  waV  instant,  and  it  has  been  lasting. 
fltTsT  at  once  Sheridan's  masterpiece,  and  the  chief) 
|  English  comedy  of  the  eighteenth ^  cejrtu^J^TT^^s 
acted  twenty  times  till  the  end  of  the  season,  and  the 
next  year  sixty-five.  It  drew  better  houses  than  any 
other  piece ;  indeed,  it  killed  all  competition.  Dr. 
Johnson  recommended  Sheridan  for  membership  in 
The  Club,  as  the  author  of  the  best  modern  comedy. 
Lord  Byron,  in  like  manner,  called  it  the  best  comedy. 
Garrick's  opinion  of  it  was  equally  emphatic  ;  he  was 
proud  of  the  success  of  his  successor  both  as  author 
and  manager ;  and  when  one  of  his  many  flatterers 
said  that,  though  this  piece  was  very  good,  still  it 
was  but  one  piece,  and  asked  what  would  become  of 
the  theatre,  now  the  Atlas  that  propped  the  stage 
•  had  left  his  station,  Garrick  retorted  quickly  that,  if 
that  were  the  case,  he  had  found  another  Hercules 
to  succeed  to  the  office. 

Cumberland  was  the  only  one  dissatisfied.  It  is 
related  that  he  took  his  children  to  see  it,  and  when 
they  screamed  with  delight  their  irritable  father 
pinched  them,  exclaiming  :  "  What  are  you  laughing 
at,  my  dear  little  folks  ?  You  should  not  laugh,  my 
angels,  there  is  nothing  to  laugh  at ;  "  adding  in  an 
undertone,  "  Keep  still,  you  little  dunces  !  "  When 
this  was  reported  to  Sheridan,  he  said,  "  It  was  un- 
grateful of  Cumberland  to  have  been  displeased  with 
his  children  for  laughing  at  my  comedy,  for,  when  I 


A   BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH.  xxxi 

went  to  see  his  tragedy,  I  laughed  from  beginning  to 
end."  But  even  Cumberland,  in  his  memoirs,  when 
defending  his  own  use  of  a  screen  in  the  '  West 
Indian,'  took  occasion  to  praise  the  *  School  for 
Scandal.'  "  I  could  name  one  now  living,"  said  he, 
"  who  has  made  such  a  happy  use  of  his  screen  in 
a  comedy  of  the  very  first  merit,  that  if  Aristotle 
himself  had  written  a  whole  chapter  professedly 
against  screens,  and  Jerry  Collier  had  edited  it,  with 
notes  and  illustrations,  I  would  not  have  placed 
Lady  Teazle  out  of  ear-shot  to  have  saved  their 
ears  from  the  pillory."  Sir  Walter  Scott  found  in 
the  '  School  for  Scandal '  the  gentlemanlike  ease  of 
Farquhar  united  to  the  wit  of  Congreve.  Hazlitt 
held  it  to  be  "  the  most  finished  and  faultless  comedy 
we  have."  The  verdict  of  the  public  did  not  change 
as  Scott  and  Hazlitt  came  to  the  front,  and  Garrick 
and  Johnson  slowly  faded  away ;  it  did  not  change 
when  Scott  and  Hazlitt  in  their  turn  departed;  it 
has  not  changed  since.  In  the  last  quarter  of  the 
nineteenth  century,  an  American  critic  of  the  highest 
culture  and  the  widest  experience,  Mr.  Henry  James, 
referred  to  the  old  comedies  only  to  declare  that, 
"  for  real  intellectual  effort,  the  literary  atmosphere 
and  tone  of  society,  there  has  long  been  nothing  like 
the  '  School  for  Scandal.'  It  has  been  played  in 
every  English-speaking  quarter  of  the  globe,  and 
has  helped  English  wit  and  taste  to  make  a  figure 
where  they  would  otherwise,  perhaps,  have  failed 
to  excite  observation." 

During  the  next  season  (on  October  15,  1778), 
there  was  acted  a  temporary  trifle  called  the  '  Camp,' 
often  credited  to  Sheridan,  and  even  rashly  admitted 
into  several  editions  of  his  works  ;  in  reality  it  was 
written  by  Tickell,  who  had  married  Mrs.  Sheridan's 


xxxii         RICHARD  BRINSLEY  SHERIDAN. 

sister.  On  January  20,  1779,  David  Garrick  died, 
and  Sheridan  was  a  chief  mourner  at  the  splendid 
funeral.  And  on  March  2,  the  monody  which 
Sheridan  wrote  to  Garrick's  memory  was  recited  at 
Drury  Lane  Theatre  by  Mrs.  Yates,  to  the  accom- 
paniment o£  appropriate  music.  This  monody  is 
the  longest  of  Sheridan's  serious  poetic  productions, 
and  it  is  the  least  interesting  and  the  least  satisfac- 
tory. He  could  write  a  song  as  well  as  any  one ; 
and  he  could  turn  the  sharp  lines  of  satire ;  but  a 
sustained  and  elevated  strain  seems  too  high  an 
effort  for  his  nimble  wit.  It  is  written  in  "  the 
straight-backed  measure,  with  its  stately  stride," 
which,  as  Dr.  Holmes  reminds  us, 

"  Gave  the  mighty  voice  of  Dryden  scope  ; 
It  sheathed  the  steel-bright  epigrams  of  Pope." 

Now  Sheridan  had  not  a  mighty  voice ;  and  steel- 
bright  epigrams  would  have  been  out  of  place  over 
the  grave  of  Garrick.  There  is  a  want  of  real  feel- 
ing in  these  verses ;  there  is  no  depth  in  them,  and 
little  heart.  There  is  cleverness,  of  course,  and  in 
plenty ;  but  even  of  this  not  as  much  as  might  have 
been  expected.  One  looks  in  vain  for  some  charac- 
terization of  Garrick  himself,  or  for  some  apt  allusion 
to  his  chief  parts,  to  his  private  character,  to  his 
writings,  to  his  position  as  a  man  of  the  world  and 
as  a  man  of  letters.  Instead,  we  have  cold  and 
elaborate  declamation  on  the  transitory  nature  of 
the  actor's  art.  This  comparison  of  the  histrionic 
with  other  arts,  pictorial  and  plastic,  had  been  made 
in  verse  by  Garrick  himself  in  the  prologue  to  the 
'  Clandestine  Marriage  ' :  — 

"  The  painter's  dead,  yet  still  he  charms  the  eye, 
While  England  lives  his  fame  can  never  die; 


A   BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH.  xxxiii 

But  he  -who  struts  his  hour  upon  the  stage 

Can  scarce  protract  his  fame  through  half  an  age  ; 

Nor  pen  nor  pencil  can  the  actor  save ; 

The  art  and  artist  have  one  common  grave. " 

It  is  this  assertion  of  Garrick's  and  Sheridan's, 
it  may  be,  that  Campbell  answered  in  his  verses  to 
Keinble :  — 

"  For  ill  can  Poetry  express 

Full  many  a  tone  of  thought  sublime  ; 
And  Painting,  mute  and  motionless, 

Steals  but  a  glance  of  time. 
But  by  the  mighty  actor  brought, 

Illusion's  perfect  triumphs  come  ; 
Verse  ceases  to  be  airy  thought, 

And  Sculpture  to  be  dumb." 

Although  the  '  Monody  on  Garrick '  is  somewhat 
laboured,  it  does  not  lack  fine  lines.  Especially 
good  is  Sheridan's  use  of  a  chance  remark  made  by 
Burke  at  Garrick's  funeral,  that  the  statue  of  Shak- 
spere  looked  toward  Garrick's  grave.  On  this  stray 
hint  Sheridan  hung  this  couplet :  — 

"  While  Shakspere's  image,  from  its  hallowed  base, 
Seemed  to  prescribe  the  grave,  and  point  the  place." 

After  the  death  of  Garrick,  Sheridan  made  only 
one  important  contribution  to  dramatic  literature, 
the  farce  of  the  '  Critic ;  or  a  Tragedy  Rehearsed,' 
produced  October  30,  1779.  ^  snows  great  versa- 
tility of  wit  in  a  dramatist  to  have  written  three  plays 
strong  enough  to  last  a  hundred  years  and  more,  and 
as  unlike  one  another  as  the  *  Rivals,'  the  '  School 
for  Scandal,'  and  the  '  Critic.'  As  different  from 
its  two  predecessors  as  they  are  from  each  other,  the 
'  Critic  '  is  frankly  a  farce  ;  it  has  something  of  the 
breadth  of  the  '  Rivals,'  and  not  a  little  of  the  point 


XXxiv       RICHARD  BRINSLEY  SHERIDAN. 

of  the  *  School  for  Scandal  ' ;  it  sets  the  model  of 
high-class  farce ;  and  as  a  farce  it  has  but  two  rivals 
in  our  drama  —  one,  the  '  Katherine  and  Petruchio,' 
which  David  Garrick  made  out  of  Shakspere's  '  Tam- 
ing of  the  Shrew,'  and  the  other,  *  High  Life  Below 
Stairs  '  (possibly  Garrick's  own  handiwork,  although 
problematically  ascribed  to  a  Rev.  James  Townley). 
The  '  Critic '  was  the  fifth  and  last  play  of  its 
author.  It  had  been  preceded  by  the  '  Rivals,'  '  St. 
Patrick's  Day,'  the  '  Duenna,'  and  the  '  School  for 
Scandal '  ;  and  with  these  it  constitutes  Sheridan's 
title  to  fame  as  a  dramatist.  Afterward  he  put  his 
name  to  '  Pizarro,'  and  the  public  chose  to  attach  it 
to  the  '  Camp,'  to  the  *  Stranger,'  to  '  Robinson  Cru- 
soe,' and  to  the  *  Forty  Thieves.'  But  he  was  not 
the  author  of  any  one  of  these  in  the  same  sense 
that  he  was  the  author  of  the  '  Critic '  and  of  its  prede- 
cessors, or,  indeed,  in  any  strict  sense  of  the  word 
whatever.  '  Pizarro '  was  avowedly  an  adaptation 
from  the  German  of  Kotzebue ;  as  Sheridan  knew  no 
German,  his  share  of  the  work  at  best  was  but  the 
altering  of  the  ready-made  translation,  and  the 
strengthening  of  Rolla's  part  by  the  addition  of 
patriotic  harangues  taken  from  Sheridan's  own  politi- 
cal speeches.  It  is  to  be  noted,  however,  that 
'  Pizarro '  was  perhaps  the  most  profitable  play 
produced  during  Sheridan's  management  of  Drury 
Lane.  It  was  first  acted  May  24,  1799;  it  was 
performed  thirty-one  times  in  less  than  six  weeks  ; 
it  took  the  King  to  the  theatre  for  the  first  time 
in  years ;  nineteen  editions  of  a  thousand  copies 
each  were  sold  in  rapid  succession ;  and  Sheridan 
got  two  thousand  guineas  for  the  copyright.  The 
'  Camp,'  although  printed  among  his  works,  was  not 
his,  as  we  have  seen.  Sheridan's  share  in  the 


A   BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH.  XXXV 

*  Stranger  '  was  but  little  more  than  a  very  careful  shap- 
ingof  the  somewhat  redundant  and  exuberant  prose  of 
the  translator,  Benjamin  Thompson,  to  the  exigencies 
of  the  stage.  His  contributions  to  the  spectacular 
and  very  successful  'Forty  Thieves,'  and  to  the  pan- 
tomime of  '  Robinson  Crusoe,'  were  confined  to  a 
hasty  sketch  of  the  plot ;  as  manager  of  the  theatre 
he  knew  what  he  wanted,  and  he  drafted  his  sugges- 
tions on  paper,  leaving  to  other  hands  the  details  of 
elaboration. 

Thus  the  '  Critic  '  remains  really  Sheridan's  latest 
contribution  to  the  stage.  While  retaining  his  vast 
pecuniary  interest  in  Drury  Lane  Theatre  and  keep- 
ing up  an  active  interest  in  the  drama,  he  longed  for 
a  larger  stage  on  which  to  show  his  brilliant  abilities 
in  the  eyes  of  all  his  countrymen.  He  was  not 
desirous  of  wholly  giving  up  literature  for  politics. 
He  intended,  rather  —  like  Canning  in  the  next 
generation  and  Disraeli  still  later  —  to  use  literature 
as  a  stepping:stone  to  politics,  and  as  a  support  after 
he  had  taken  the  decisive  step.  His  time  soon 
came.  His  *  Critic  '  was  brought  out  near  the  end 
of  October,  1779,  and  before  the  end  of  October,  1780, 
Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan,  as  one  of  the  members 
for  Stafford,  had  taken  his  seat  in  Parliament  by  the 
side  of  his  friends  Charles  Fox  and  Edmund  Burke. 

Before  leaving  Sheridan  the  dramatist,  to  consider 
briefly  the  career  of "Sfi endan  the~poriudaTlp&iention 
must  be  made  of  prbjecfed  and  unfinished  dramas  he 
left  behind  him.  In  1768,  when  he  was  only  seven- 
teen, he  planned  a  play  out  of  the  '  Vicar  of  Wake- 
field.'  Among  his  papers  Moore  found  the  rough 
draft  of  three  acts  of  a  musical  drama,  wild  in  sub- 
ject and  apparently  satiric  in  intent,  and  he  quotes 
several  pages  of  it,  including  one  song  which  was 


XXXvi       RICHARD  BR1NSLEY  SHERIDAN. 

suggested  by  a  sonnet  of  Sir  Philip  Sidney's ;  the 
general  scheme  seems  to  be  borrowed  from  the 
'  Goblins  '  of  Sir  John  Suckling.  Later  than  this  un- 
finished opera-book,  and  apparently  evolved  from 
it  with  much  modification,  was  a  play  called  the  '  For- 
esters.' Moore  could  find  only  crude  fragments  of 
this  piece,  yet  the  Octogenarian  who  has  since  written 
Sheridan's  life  asserts  that  at  least  two  acts  were 
wholly  completed,  having  been  read  both  to  him  and 
by  him.  This  later  biographer  it  is  who  fixes  the 
date  of  this  piece  as  just  after  his  second  marriage, 
1795.  Most  to  be  regretted,  however,  is  the  comedy 
of  '  Affectation,'  in  the  composition  of  which  he  had 
advanced  no  farther  than  the  jotting  down  of  many 
memorandums.  These  stray  notes  do  not  preserve 
a  single  scene  or  any  vestige  of  a  plot ;  they  record 
only  a  few  embryos  of  character,  and  germs  of  jests 
and  jokes.  Affectation  was  a  subject  as  fertile  as 
Scandal,  and  as  suitable  to  Sheridan's  gifts ;  he 
excelled  in  the  art  of  setting  up  a  profile  figure  and 
sending  successive  bullets  through  its'  heart.  With 
a  target  like  Affectation  he  could  have  been  relied 
on  to  ring  the  bell  every  time  off-hand.  Yet  it  may 
be  questioned  whether  Sheridan,  even  under  other 
circumstances,  would  ever  have  taken  heart  and 
given  his  mind  to  the  finishing  of  this  comedy.  _ 
Moliere  used  to  turn  aside  compliments  on  his  work 
with  a  "  Wait  until  you  see  my  *  Homme  de  Cour.'  " 
So  Sheridan  used  to  say,  "  Wait  till  you  see  my 
'  Foresters.'  "  But  we  may  well  doubt  whether  he 
ever  really  intended  to  finish  and  polish  and  produce 
either  the  '  Foresters  '  or  '  Affectation.'  Like  Rossini 
after  'William  Tell,'  Sheridan,  after  the  '  School  for 
Scandal,'  was  content  to  quit  work  and  to  bask  lazily 
in  the  sunshine  of  his  reputation.  As  Scott  said  of 


A   BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH.          XXX vii 

Campbell,  Sheridan  was  "  afraid  of  the  shadow  that 
his  own  fame  cast  before  him."  And  Michael 
Kelly  records  that  when  he  heard  that  Sheridan  had 
told  the  Queen  he  had  a  new  comedy  in  preparation, 
he,  Kelly,  took  occasion  to  say  to  him,  Sheridan, 
""You  will  never  write  again  ;  you  are  afraid  to 
write." 

Sheridan  fixed  his  penetrating  eye  on  Kelly  and 
asked,  "  Of  whom  am  I  afraid  ?  " 

And  Kelly  retorted  quickly  :  — 

"  You  are  afraid  of  the  author  of  the  '  School  for 
Scandal.'" 

III. 

When  Sheridan  entered  the  House  of  Commons 
in  1780,  the  chosen  representative  of  the  indepen- 
dent borough  of  Stafford,  as  Mr.  Rae  reminds  us. 
"  William  Pitt  took  his  seat  for  the  first  time  as  the 
nominee  of  Sir  James  Lowther,  for  the  pocket-borough 
•of  Appleby."  Pitt's  first  speech  was  well  received. 
Sheridan's  was  not.  It  is  easier  for  an  unknown 
man  to  succeed  in  Parliament  than  a  celebrity,  for 
the  House  is  jealous  of  all  reputation  got  elsewhere. 
Addison  kept  silent ;  Steele  was  greeted  with  shouts 
of  "Tatler,"  "Tatler";  Erskine  and  Jeffrey  and 
Mackintosh  barely  held  their  own  in  the  House ; 
Macaulay  and  Lytton  did  little  more ;  Disraeli,  like 
Sheridan,  failed  at  first,  and  at  last  became  the 
favourite  speaker  of  the  Commons.  Sheridan's  first 
speech  was  made  November  20,  1780,  and  he  was 
heard  with  great  attention.  The  impression  he 
made  was  not  favourable ;  to  Woodfall,  who  con- 
fessed this  to  him,  he  exclaimed  vehemently,  "  It 
is  in  me,  however,  and,  by  God,  it  shall  come  out !  " 


XXXVlii     RICHARD  BRINSLEY  SHERIDAN. 

It  will  be  remembered  that  Disraeli  was  ill  received, 
and  that  he  told  the  stormy  House  a  time  would 
come  when  they  should  hear  him. 

Sheridan  kept  very  quiet  for  a  year  or  more,  speak- 
ing little,  and  always  precisely  and  to  the  point,  with 
no  attempt  at  display.  After  he  had  been  in  Parlia- 
ment some  sixteen  months,  Lord  North's  adminis- 
tration was  turned  out,  and  the  change  of  ministry 
which  gave  peace  and  independence  to  these  United 
States  of  America  also  gave  his  first  seat  in  office  to 
Sheridan,  who  was  appointed  one  of  the  Under  Sec- 
retaries of  State.  The  death  of  the  Marquis  of 
Rockingham  broke  up  the  new  cabinet  after  a  brief 
life  of  four  months,  and  although  he  disapproved  of 
the  step,  Sheridan  loyally  followed  Fox  in  resigning. 
The  unwise  coalition  of  Fox  with  Lord  North  suc- 
ceeded in  driving  Lord  Shelburne  out  of  office ;  and 
in  the  new  government,  Sheridan  was  Secretary  of 
the  Treasury.  But  in  December,  1783,  the  ministry 
fell,  and  Sheridan  left  office,  not  to  return  for  nearly 
twenty  years.  In  1784,  he  was  reelected  for  Staf- 
ford, although  the  unpopularity  of  the  Coalition  was 
so  great  that  no  less  than  one  hundred  and  sixty  of 
its  followers  were  defeated  and  left  with  only  the 
barren  consolation  of  calling  themselves  "  Fox's 
Martyrs." 

In  June,  1785,  Burke  gave  notice  that  he  would, 
at  a  future  day,  make  a  motion  respecting  the  con- 
duct of  a  gentleman  just  returning  from  India ;  and 
in  1786,  he  formally  impeached  Warren  Hastings 
for  high  crimes  and  misdemeanours  during  his  rule 
over  hapless  India.  While  it  was  Burke  who,  moved 
by  the  deepest  moral  revolt  against  wrong,  inspired 
and  animated  the  prosecution  against  Hastings,  it 
was  perhaps  more  due  to  Sheridan,  who  had  been 


A   BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH.  xxxix 

gaining  steadily  as  an  orator,  than  to  Burke,  that 
public  opinion,  at  first  favourable  to  the  defendant, 
soon  shifted  against  him.  Sheridan  was  a  popular 
speaker ;  he  spoke  well  and  he  was  listened  to  with 
expectation  and  pleasure.  Burke  spoke  ill ;  and 
with  so  little  effect  that  his  opponents  thought  it 
needless  to  answer  some  of  the  orations  to  which 
men  now  refer  as  storehouses  of  political  wisdom. 
Any  comparison  of  Sheridan's  political  understand- 
ing with  Burke 's  is  unkind  to  the  dramatist,  who 
was  not  a  statesman  by  instinct  or  by  training.  But 
that  Sheridan  was  a  better  speaker  than  Burke  admits 
of  little  doubt.  Burke  bored  his  audience  ;  Sheridan 
charmed,  captivated,  converted.  Burke  had  a  depth 
and  an  elevation  that  Sheridan  had  not ;  but  Sheridan 
had  the  common  sense  which  Burke  not  infrequently 
lacked.  It  was  remarked  that  Burke 's  notes  for  the 
speeches  against  Hastings  were  dates,  facts,  figures; 
and  that  Sheridan's  were  bits  of  ornamental  rhetoric, 
illustrations,  and  witticisms.  This  is  not  to  Sheri- 
dan's discredit ;  each  orator  had  set  down  what  he 
most  needed.  Burke  could  rely  on  his  exuberant 
imagination  and  his  burning  indignation  to  furnish 
him  with  figures  of  speech ;  and  Sheridan  treasured 
up  carefully  prepared  literary  ornaments,  sure  of 
himself  in  any  treatment  of  the  facts  which  his  clear 
mind  had  once  fully  mastered  by  dint  of  hard 
labour. 

It  was  on  February  7,  1787,  that  Sheridan,  follow- 
ing Burke,  brought  forward  against  Hastings  the 
charge  relative  to  the  Princesses  of  Oude,  in  the 
speech  whose  effect  upon  its  hearers,  Moore  con- 
siders to  have  "  no  parallel  in  the  annals  of  ancient 
or  modern  eloquence."  Burke,  enthusiastic  for  his 
cause,  and  generous  in  his  praise,  although  already 


xl  RICHARD  BRINSLEY  SHERIDAN. 

and  always  jealous  of  Sheridan,  declared  it  to  be 
"  the  most  astonishing  effort  of  eloquence,  argument, 
and  wit  united,  of  which  there  was  any  record  or 
tradition."  Fox  said  "  that  all  he  had  ever  heard, 
all  that  he  had  ever  read,  when  compared  with  it, 
dwindled  into  nothing,  and  vanished  like  vapour 
before  the  sun."  And  Pitt  acknowledged,  "that 
it  surpassed  all  the  eloquence  of  ancient  and  mod- 
ern times,  and  possessed  everything  that  genius  or 
art  could  furnish  to  agitate  and  control  the  human 
mind."  Immediately  after  the  delivery  of  the 
speech,  an  adjournment  of  the  House  was  moved, 
on  the  ground  that  Sheridan's  speech  had  left  such 
an  impression  that  it  was  impossible  to  arrive  at  a 
determinate  opinion.  Unfortunately,  no  report  of 
this  speech  exists.  There  is  a  wretched  summary, 
with  an  attempt  here  and  there  to  record  a  few  of 
Sheridan's  actual  words,  but  the  speech  itself  has 
not  come  down  to  us ;  and  it  is  unfair  to  attempt 
to  judge  it  by  the  feeble  and  twisted  fragments 
which  remain.  It  was  this  speech  which  made 
Sheridan's  fame  as  an  orator. 

The  impeachment  of  Warren  Hastings  having 
been  voted,  Sheridan  was  appointed  one  of  the 
managers  of  the  trial  before  the  House  of  Lords. 
On  June  3,  1787,  he  began  a  speech  of  four  days  on 
the  charge  he  had  presented  in  the  earlier  oration. 
No  harder  test  of  a  man's  ability  could  well  be  de- 
vised, than  the  making  of  a  second  speech  on  a 
subject  which  had  already  called  forth  the  utmost 
exertion  of  his  powers.  Hopeless  of  the  success  of 
a  second  attempt  to  hit  the  midday  sun  with  the 
same  arrow,  Fox  advised  a  revision  and  repetition 
of  the  first  speech.  Sheridan  was  not  the  man  thus 
to  confess  feebleness  and  exhaustion.  He  girded 


A   BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH.  xli 

himself  for  the  combat,  and  was  again  victorious. 
Yet,  as  Walpole  explains,  he  "  did  not  quite  satisfy 
the  passionate  expectation  that  had  been  raised ;  but 
it  was  impossible  he  could,  when  people  had  worked 
themselves  into  an  enthusiasm  of  offering  fifty 
guineas  for  a  ticket  to  hear  him."  But  Burke  de- 
clared that  "  of  all  the  various  species  of  oratory  that 
had  ever  been  heard,  either  in  ancient  or  modern 
times,  whatever  the  acuteness  of  the  bar,  the  dignity 
of  the  senate,  or  the  morality  of  the  pulpit,  could 
furnish,  had  not  been  equal  to  what  that  House  had 
heard  that  day  in  Westminster  Hall."  Burke  was 
then  Sheridan's  political  friend  ;  but  Wraxall,  who 
was  his  political  opponent  and  who  had  heard  this 
speech,  records  "that  the  most  ardent  admirers  of 
Burke,  of  Fox,  and  of  Pitt,  allowed  that  they  had 
been  outdone  as  orators  by  Sheridan." 

This  speech  has  fortunately  been  preserved  to  us 
in  the  shorthand  report  of  the  trial,  taken  by  Mr. 
Gurney's  reporters  and  published  at  the  suggestion 
of  the  late  Sir  George  Cornwall  Lewis.  Unfortu- 
nately, an  earlier  perversion  of  the  oration,  due  to 
the  imaginative  inaccuracy  of  a  reporter  of  the  old 
school  of  Dr.  Johnson,  has  gained  almost  universal 
acceptance,  to  the  lowering  of  Sheridan's  reputation 
as  an  orator.  It  is  this  ludicrously  inexact  report 
which  figures  as  the  real  oration  in  both  of  the  col- 
lections of  Sheridan's  speeches.  True  it  is,  that 
Sheridan  was  artificial  and  that  he  was  frequently 
guilty  of  the  oratorical  and  architectural  fault  of  con- 
structing his  ornament  instead  of  ornamenting  his 
construction.  But  he  was  wholly  incapable  of  the 
bathos  and  bombast  of  the  speech  which  is  only  too 
often  quoted  as  his.  The  prime  quality  of  his  ora- 
tory was  its  common-sense.  The  prime  defect  was 


xlii  RICHARD  BRINSLEY  SHERIDAN. 

its  exuberance  of  rhetoric :  it  might  be  said  of  him, 
as  Joubert  said  of  a  French  orator,  that  "  his  speech 
is  flowery,  but  his  flowers  are  not  a  natural  growth  ; 
they  are  rather  like  the  paper-flowers  one  finds  in 
shops."  This  seems  a  minor  failing  when  we  recall 
Sheridan's  possession  of  the  one  absolute  essential 
of  the  orator  —  he  was  persuasive.  Sir  Gilbert 
Minto  records  that  Pitt  was  waked  up  at  seven  in 
the  morning  to  see  a  man  who  was  supposed  to  be 
bringing  news  of  a  victory,  but  who  "told  Mr.  Pitt 
that  he  had  travelled  all  night  from  Brighton,  that 
his  name  was  Jenkins  and  his  business  not  about  the 
navy,  but  the  army,  which  he  had  a  plan  for  recruit- 
ing. He  had  been  reading  *  Pizarro,'  and  was  per- 
suaded that  Rolla's  first  speech  was  irresistible ; 
that  he  had  read  it  to  numbers  at  Brighton,  and  to 
all  he  met  in  the  way.  Every  soul  felt  its  power,  and 
had  enlisted.  Here  he  produced  a  list  of  all  their 
names,  and  insisted  that  if  empowered,  he  could  soon 
raise  two  hundred  thousand  men."  Now  Rolla's 
first  speech  was  a  recasting  of  one  of  Sheridan's  own 
speeches  in  the  House.  Sheridan  was  not  only  a 
born  orator  ;  he  was  a  very  carefully  trained  speaker ; 
one  may  say  almost,  that  he  had  been  bred  to  the 
trade.  His  father  taught  him  oratory  when  he  was 
a  boy ;  and  Dr.  Parr  bears  witness  to  his  schoolboy 
knowledge  of  Cicero  and  Demosthenes.  From  the 
time  he  first  came  before  the  public  as  a  speaker,  to 
the  end  of  his  career  as  a  politician,  he  spared  no 
pains  to  make  the  best  possible  appearance. 

As  oratory  is  an  art,  Sheridan's  careful  prepara- 
tion should  be  counted  for  him,  not  against  him. 
Most  extempore  speakers  have  accumulated  a  fund 
of  phrases  and  figures,  on  which  they  can  draw  at 
will.  When  Daniel  Webster  was  complimented  on 


A   BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH.  xliii 

the  admirable  description  of  the  British  drum-tap 
circling  the  world  with  the  rising  sun,  a  description 
seemingly  the  inspiration  of  the  moment,  and  called 
out  in  an  unexpected  debate,  he  confessed  frankly 
that  he  had  first  thought  of  it  one  morning  in  a 
Canadian  citadel,  and  that,  taking  his  seat  on  a 
cannon,  he  had  at  once  given  it  shape  on  paper,  and 
then  committed  it  to  his  capacious  memory,  where 
it  was  stored  up,  ready  for  instant  use.  Sheridan 
like  Webster  set  down  every  chance  suggestion,  and 
sought  to  be  prepared  against  the  moment  of  danger. 
But,  however  carefully  elaborated  his  epigram  might 
be,  there  was  no  trace  of  the  workshop  ;  all  the  tools 
wrere  put  away,  and  the  shavings  swept  up.  His 
wit,  whether  old  or  new,  had  always  the  appearance 
of  spontaneity.  No  one  ever  saw  the  trains  which 
fired  the  coruscating  wheel.  Had  it  not  been  for 
Moore's  indiscretion,  no  one  would  ever  have  sus- 
pected the  workshop,  the  kitchen,  or  the  quick 
match.  And  it  must  be  remembered  that  very  few 
of  Sheridan's  strokes  of  wit,  and  scarcely  one  of  the  best 
of  them,  could  have  been  considered  in  advance.  When 
taken  unawares  he  was  as  ready  as  when  armed  for 
the  encounter.  There  are  instances,  almost  without 
number,  in  which  the  steel  of  Sheridan's  wit  struck 
fire  from  the  chance  flint  of  the  moment.  - 

To  say  that  because  Sheridan  sometimes  used  the 
wit  of  others,  he  had  none  of  his  own ;  and  that  be- 
cause he  always  prepared,  when  possible,  he  could 
do  naught  impromptu,  is  absurd  ;  —  and  yet  this  has 
been  said,  now  and  again.  Strike  out  of  his  come- 
dies all  the  jests  he  may  have  lifted  from  his  prede- 
cessors, and  the  loss  would  scarcely  be  noticed ;  — 
we  doubt,  in  fact,  whether  it  would  be  detected  at 
all,  except  by  professed  students  of  dramatic  litera- 


xliv  RICHARD  BRINSLEY  SHERIDAN. 

ture.  Strike  out  of  his  record  as  a  speaker  in  public 
and  in  private,  all  the  suggestions  derived  from 
others,  and  again  the  loss  is  scarcely  to  be  seen. 
Sheridan  gave  to  his  work  the  labour  of  the  artist  who 
knows  the  value  of  his  conception,  and  seeks  to  bring 
out  the  final  perfection.  The  care  he  bestowed  on 
the  polishing  of  his  diamond  till  it  should  be  as 
brilliant  and  as  cutting  as  possible,  led  him  at  times 
to  repeat  himself  ;  indeed,  in  later  life  he  reverted  so 
often  to  his  earlier  and  easier  writings  for  stones  to 
set  more  elaborately,  that  he  incurred  the  reproach 
of  borrowing  from  himself.  Even  in  the  '  Duenna,' 
more  than  one  song  was  taken  from  this  or  that  copy 
of  verses  written  to  Miss  Linley,  or  some  other  fair 
lady,  during  his  bachelor  days  in  Bath.  The  curt 
assertion  that  a  certain  political  opponent  "  relied 
on  his  imagination  for  his  facts,  and  on  his  memory 
for  his  wit,"  Sheridan  tried  in  several  forms  before 
he  was  finally  satisfied  with  it.  It  is  difficult  to  say 
whether  this  repetition  of  what  he  had  used  once 
already  came  more  from  a  desire  to  leave  all  his  wit 
in  the  best  shape  for  posterity,  lightened  of  super- 
fluity, or  whether  it  sprang  from  his  natural  laziness, 
which  led  him  always  to  fall  back  on  what  he  had  on 
hand  when  it  was  possible  to  avoid  the  exertion  of 
originality.  So  far  did  he  carry  this,  not  only  in 
public,  but  in  private,  that,  as  Harness  recorded, 
he  endangered  the  peace  of  his  household ;  his  sec- 
ond wife  was  found  one  day  walking  up  and  down 
her  drawing-room,  apparently  in  a  frantic  state  of 
mind,  calling  her  husband  a  villain,  because,  as  she 
explained  after  some  hesitation,  she  had  just  dis- 
covered that  the  love  letters  he  sent  her  were  the 
very  same  as  those  which  he  had  written  to  his  first 
wife.  *  As  one  of  his  critics  has  remarked,  "It  is 


A   BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH.  xlv 

singular  enough  that  the  treasures  of  wit  which 
Sheridan  was  thought  to  possess  in  such  profusion, 
should  have  been  the  only  species  of  wealth  which 
he  ever  dreamt  of  economizing." 

To  the  quick  wit  and  good  humour  of  Sheridan's 
conversation  we  have  the  testimony  of  well-nigh  all 
who  met  him.  An  easy  nature,  an  unfailing  readi- 
ness, and  an  innocent  delight  in  the  exercise  of  his 
powers,  made  him  a  most  enjoyable  companion,  and 
therefore  to  be  bidden  to  every  conviviality.  It  is 
true  that  Byron  tells  us  that  "  Sheridan's  humour, 
or  rather  wit,  was  always  saturnine  and  sometimes 
savage.  He  never  laughed,  at  least  that  I  saw,  and 
I  watched  him."  But  Byron  saw  him  only  in  his 
soured  and  tormented  age.  In  his  youth,  and  in 
early  manhood,  he  was  lively  and  full  of  fun,  abun- 
dant in  boyish  pranks  and  practical  jokes.  With 
Tickell,  who  had  married  Mrs.  Sheridan's  sister,  he 
was  ever  ready  for  a  fantastic  freak,  only  too  often 
of  the  practical  sort.  One  Saturday  night  he  volun- 
teered to  write  a  sermon  to  be  preached  by  a  rever- 
end friend  visiting  him ;  and  it  was  only  months  after 
the  clergyman  had  delivered  the  admirable  discourse 
on  *  The  Abuse  of  Riches,'  which  Sheridan  had 
spe'nt  the  evening  in  composing,  that  he  discovered 
it  to  be  a  covert  attack  on  a  local  magnate  generally 
accused  of  ill-treating  the  poor.  In  later  life,  in  his 
sad  decadence,  after  unchecked  conviviality  had 
done  its  work,  coming  one  night  very  late  out  of  a 
tavern,  he  was  so  overtaken  with  liquor  as  to  need 
the  aid  of  passers,  who  asked  his  name  and  abode, 
and  to  whom  he  gravely  made  answer,  "  Gentlemen, 
I  am  not  often  in  this  way  ;  my  name  is  Wilberforce." 
This  is  a  reckless  jest,  at  which  even  M.  Taine, 
nowhere  disposed  to  be  over-amiable  to  Sheridan, 


xlvi  RICHARD  BRINSLEY  SHERIDAN. 

smiles  perforce.  A  man  capable  of  practical  jokes 
likes  these,  even  in  his  saddest  age,  is  as  far  removed 
as  may  be  from  moroseness.  Sydney  Smith's  opin- 
ion lies  directly  across  Byron's  ;  "  the  charm  of  Sheri- 
dan's speaking/'  said  he,  "  was  his  multifariousness 
of  style."  Now,  a  man  savage,  saturnine,  or  morose 
can  hardly  have  a  multifariousness  of  style  in  speak- 
ing; and  one  is  at  a  loss  to  account  for  Byron's 
assertion.  Sydney  Smith  has  been  cited,  because, 
like  Byron,  he  met  Sheridan  only  when  the  author 
of  the  *  School  for  Scandal '  was  old  and  worn  and 
wearied.  In  his  bright  and  brilliant  youth,  after  he 
had  suddenly  from  nothing  sprung  to  the  front,  and 
the  ball  lay  at  his  feet,  he  was  everywhere  hailed 
as  a  wit  of  the  first  water.  Lord  John  Townshend 
made  a  dinner  party  for  Fox  to  meet  Sheridan  ;  and 
he  records:  "The  first  interview  between  them  I 
shall  never  forget.  Fox  told  me,  after  breaking  up 
from  dinner,  that  he  had  always  thought  Hare,  after 
my  uncle  Charles  Townshend,  the  wittiest  man  he 
ever  met  with,  but  that  Sheridan  surpassed  them 
both  infinitely."  And  this,  let  it  be  noted,  was  after 
the  host  had  specially  raised  Fox's  expectations  by 
dwelling  at  length  on  Sheridan's  extraordinary 
powers. 

Unless  Sheridan's  manner  when  Byron  was  pres- 
ent was  unusual,  or  unless  he  had  changed  unac- 
countably with  the  thickening  years,  Sydney  Smith's 
opinion  is  more  to  be  relied  on  than  the  poet's.  And 
Sydney  Smith,  it  is  to  be  remembered,  is  one  who 
had  wit  enough  of  his  own  to  appreciate  Sheridan's. 
There  is  indeed  one  quality  in  which  the  dramatist 
and  the  Dean  were  alike.  Lord  Dudley  said  to  the 
latter,  —  "  You  have  been  laughing  at  me  constantly, 
Sydney,  for  the  last  seven  years,  and  yet  in  all  that 


A   BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH.  xlvii 

time,  you  never  said  a  single  thing  to  me  that  I 
wished  unsaid."  In  like  manner,  Sheridan  was  ever 
girding  at  Michael  Kelly,  —  ''Composer  of  Wines 
and  Importer  of  Music,"  —  and  yet  his  cuts  were 
kindly  and  left  no  scar ;  and  nowhere  is  Sheridan 
treated  with  more  honest  affection  than  in  Kelly's 
recollections.  Sydney  Smith's  wit  has  been  com- 
pared to  "  summer  lightning,  that  never  harmed  the 
object  illumined  by  its  flash  " ;  and  to  continue  the 
parallel,  in  the  verses  Moore  wrote  just  after  Sheri- 
dan's death,  he  declared  him  one 

"  Whose  humour,  as  gay  as  the  fire-fly's  light, 

Played  round  every  subject,  and  shone  as  it  played; 
Whose  wit,  in  the  combat  as  gentle  as  bright, 
Ne'er  carried  a  heart-stain  away  on  its  blade." 

Even  in  political  debate,  however  sharp  or  acri- 
monious, Sheridan  seems  ever  to  have  been  courte- 
ous to  his  adversary  ;  and  although  every  shot  hit  its 
mark  with  fatal  effect,  there  was  no  mangling  of  the 
corpse  ;  he  never  made  use  of  explosive  bullets. 
However  keen  his  thrust  and  his  enjoyment  of  it, 
there  was  nothing  vindictive  or  malignant  to  be  de- 
tected. Even  when  his  great  rival,  Burke,  moved 
partly,  it  may  be,  by  jealousy,  but  mainly,  no  doubt, 
by  growing  political  distrust,  broke  with  his  friends 
and  crossed  over  to  the  ministerial  benches,  with  the 
cry,  "  I  quit  the  camp,"  —  Sheridan  did  not  hasten 
to  seize  the  occasion  for  taunting  invective  ;  he  only 
hoped  that  as  the  Honourable  Gentleman  had  quitted 
the  camp  as  a  deserter,  he  would  never  attempt  to 
return  as  a  spy. 

Sheridan's  oratory  was  like  his  dramatic  writing 
and  his  poetry,  in  that  all  three  things,  speeches, 
plays,  poems,  are  only  varied  forms  of  expression  for 


xlviii        RICHARD  BRINSLEY  SHERIDAN. 

the  wit  which  was  his  chief  characteristic.  After  he 
entered  public  life,  and  until  he  fell  under  the  evil  in- 
fluence of  the  Prince  of  Wales,  his  wit  and  his  oratory 
were  always  used  in  the  good  cause.  Like  Burke, 
Sheridan  was  at  once  a  true  Irishman  and  an  Eng- 
lish patriot.  In  the  preface  of  the  *  Rivals,'  he  de- 
clares his  attachment  to  Ireland  ;  and  at  all  times 
throughout  his  career  he  could  be  relied  on  to  do 
whatever  in  him  lay  for  the  greater  honour,  dignity, 
and  peace  of  the  British  empire.  When  the  French 
Revolution  came  and  "  the  great  army  of  the  indo- 
lent good,  the  people  who  lead  excellent  lives  and 
never  .use  their  reason,  took  violent  alarm,"  and  when 
in  1793  Pitt,  to  use  Mr.  Morley's  apt  expression, 
"  lost  his  feet,  though  he  did  not  lose  his  head," 
Sheridan  stood  with  Fox  by  "  the  old  flag  of  freedom 
and  generous  common-sense."  When  the  country 
really  was  in  danger  from  French  aggression  in  1799, 
Sheridan  did  not  falter ;  and,  as  we  have  seen, 
'  Pizarro  '  was  worth  many  a  recruit.  And  when  the 
mutiny  at  the  Nore  broke  out,  Sheridan  sacrificed 
party  to  patriotism,  and  gave  prompt  aid  to  the  put- 
ting down  of  the  revolt  in  a  manner  creditable  alike 
to  his  heart  and  his  head,  and  in  marked  contrast 
with  the  conduct  of  other  politicians  then,  like  him, 
in  opposition. 

IV. 

From  his  marriage  and  the  production  of  the 
'  Rivals  '  to  the  trial  of  Warren  Hastings,  Sheridan's 
position  and  reputation  had  been  steadily  rising.  For 
a  while  they  maintained  themselves  at  the  exalted 
level  to  which  they  had  attained.  But  slowly  the 
good  fortune  which  had  waxed  began  in  time  to  wane. 


A   BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH.  xlix 

In  1788,  Sheridan's  father  died,  and  in  1792  Sheri- 
dan's wife  died  also,  to  his  great  grief.  Moore  and 
Smythe  bear  witness  to  the  strength  of  Sheridan's 
love  for  his  wife,  and  to  the  depth  of  his  sorrow  at 
her  loss.  Had  she  lived,  perhaps  Sheridan's  later 
life  would  have  been  other  than  it  was  ;  one  may  at 
least  hazard  this  suggestion.  While  she  was  yet 
alive,  Sheridan  had  begun  to  yield  to  the  temptations 
of  society,  to  live  beyond  his  means,  and  to  neglect 
the  business  of  the  theatre.  After  her  death  these 
bad  habits  grew  on  him,  and  became  inveterate. 
Unfortunately  there  was  never  greater  need  of  ex- 
actness and  economy  than  then,  for  the  Drury  Lane 
Theatre  was  condemned  by  the  architects  and  torn 
down ;  and  the  money  to  erect  a  new  theatre  had  to 
be  raised  by  the  issue  of  ^150,000  in  debentures  of 
^500  each.  Pending  the  rebuilding,  the  company 
performed  at  the  Opera-House,  and  later  at  the  Hay- 
market.  Unexpected  delay  in  the  completion  of  the 
new  theatre  caused  great  loss,  and  began  that  accu- 
mulation of  indebtedness  which  was  not  to  be  cleared 
off  during  Sheridan's  life.  At  last  .the  house  was 
complete;  and  on  April  21,  1794,  it  was  opened 
with  a  performance  of  '  Macbeth.'  A  few  weeks 
later,  on  the  receipt  of  the  news  of  Lord  Howe's  vic- 
tory, Sheridan  brought  out  an  occasional  piece,  called 
'  The  Glorious  First  of  June,'  sketched  by  himself, 
written,  rehearsed,  and  produced  in  three  days. 

In  the  spring  of  1795,  Sheridan  was  married  to 
Miss  Ogle,  a  young  daughter  of  the  Dean  of  Win- 
chester, having  settled  upon  her,  as  a  condition 
precedent  to  the  wedding,  a  sum  of  ^15,000,  raised 
by  debentures  on  the  theatre.  During  the  next  few 
years  his  difficulties  increased.  At  last,  in  1802, 
came  a  final  blow.  The  theatre  was  burnt  to  the 


1  RICHARD  BRINSLEY  SHERIDAAT. 

ground.  As  the  glare  of  the  burning  building  lighted 
up  the  House  of  Commons,  where  Sheridan  sat  in 
silence,  a  motion  was  made  to  adjourn,  out  of  regard 
for  Sheridan,  who  opposed  it,  hoping  that  what- 
ever might  be  the  extent  of  his  private  calamity  it 
would  not  interfere  with  the  public  business  of  the 
country.  There  seems  to  be  a  doubt  whether  he  re- 
mained thereafter  at  his  post  in  the  House,  or 
whether  he  went  to  the  scene  of  his  loss  and  the 
theatre  of  his  triumphs.  After  the  destruction  of 
Drury  Lane,  Sheridan  was  a  ruined  man.  Whit- 
bread  took  charge  of  the  erection  of  the  new  theatre  ; 
an  act  of  Parliament  was  passed  enabling  it  to  be 
rebuilt  by  subscriptions  ;  Sheridan  was  paid  ^28,000 
for  his  interest  in  the  property,  and  his  son  Thomas 
;£i  2,000  for  his  quarter  share.  But  this  was  con- 
ditional on  Sheridan's  absolute  abandonment  of  all 
connection  with  the  theatre  ;  and  Whitbread  enforced 
this  stipulation  with  pitiless  exactness.  Whitbread 
was  the  one  man  whose  heart  was  too  hard  even  for 
Sheridan  to  soften.  It  was  three  years  before  Sheri- 
dan set  foot  in  the  play-house  he  had  ruled  for  twenty- 
five  of  the  mos't  prosperous  and  glorious  years  of  its 
career.  Deprived  of  the  revenues  of  the  theatre,  and 
sinking  deeper  into  embarrassment,  he  was  at  last 
unable  to  raise  the  money  needed  for  his  election  at 
Stafford.  In  1812  he  made  his  final  speech  in  the 
House  of  Commons ;  it  was  a  warning  against  the 
rapacious  designs  of  Napoleon.  From  this  time, 
Moore  tells  us,  "  the  distresses  of  Sheridan  now  in- 
creased every  day,  and  through  the  short  remainder 
of  his  life  it  is  a  melancholy  task  to  follow  him."  He 
was  forced  to  sell  his  books,  his  plate,  his  pictures, 
and  even  to  part  with  the  portrait  of  Mrs.  Sheridan 
by  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds.  In  the  spring  of  1815  came 


A  BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH.  H 

"  one  of  the  most  humiliating  trials  of  his  pride  "  ; 
"  he  was  arrested  and  carried  to  a  sponging-house, 
where  he  remained  two  or  three  days."  That  Sheri- 
dan should  have  been  neglected  in  this  condition  by 
the  Prince  whom  he  had  served  to  his  own  discredit, 
is  only  what  one  might  have  expected  from  the  First 
Gentleman  in  Europe ;  but  there  are  those  who  de- 
clare that  a  sum  of  money,  about  ^3000,  was  sent 
Sheridan  by  the  Prince,  although  it  was  "  either  at- 
tached by  his  creditors,  or  otherwise  dissipated  in 
such  manner  that  very  little  of  it  actually  reached  its 
destination."  It  is  to  be  remembered  that  he  had  no 
pension  like  Burke,  and  that  no  public  or  private  sub- 
scription was  ever  taken  up  for  Sheridan  as  it  was  for 
Pitt  and  Fox,  for  Lamartine  and  for  Daniel  Webster. 
It  must  be  remembered,  too,  that  the  settlement  on 
the  second  Mrs.  Sheridan  was  ^15,000,  and  that 
Sheridan's  debts  at  his  death  were  found  to  be  less 
than  ^5000  —  far  less  than  the  debts  of  Fox  or 
Pitt ;  and  these  debts  were  paid  by  the  family.  The 
anonymous  Octogenarian,  in  whose  biography  is  to 
be  found  the  best  account  of  Sheridan's  last  hours, 
describes  Mrs.  Sheridan's  grief  and  her  constant  at- 
tention in  his  last  days.  Peter  Moore,  Dr.  Bain,  and 
Samuel  Rogers  were  also  true  to  their  fast-failing 
friend.  None  the  less  is  it  a  fact,  that  he  was  under 
arrest  when  he  was  dying,  "  on  a  writ  issued  at  a 
time  when  the  invalid  was  in  a  state  of  unconscious- 
ness." Fortunately,  the  sheriff's  officer  had  a  kind 
heart,  and,  as  the  custodian  of  the  dying  man,  he 
protected  him  against  any  other  suit  which  might  be 
urged  against  him.  Mrs.  Sheridan  sent  for  the 
Bishop  of  London  to  read  prayers  for  him,  but  Sheri- 
dan was  wholly  insensible.  At  nine  o'clock  on  the 
morning  of  Sunday,  July  7, 1816,  he  said  "  Good-by  "; 


Hi  RICHARD  BRINSLEY  'SHERIDAN. 

these  were  his  last  words.      He  sank  rapidly,  and 
died  at  twelve  noon. 

On  the  following  Saturday,  July  13,  the  body  of 
the  man  who  had  died  in  neglect  was  buried  with 
great  pomp  in  Westminster  Abbey,  with  dukes  and 
earls  as  pall-bearers,  and  with  a  long  string  of  royal 
and  noble  mourners. 

V. 

Sheridan's  character  is  enigmatic  ;  it  is  not  to  be 
read  off-hand  and  at  random ;  it  is  complicated  and 
unequal ;  and  it  is  to  be  understood  and  explained 
only  at  the  cost  of  effort.  Sheridan  was  good-natured 
and  warm-hearted ;  he  never  did  any  one  an  inten- 
tional injury ;  but  he  brought  trouble  on  all  who 
trusted  him.  While  he  was  gentle,  kind,  and  affec- 
tionate, his  wife  had  reason  to  feel  neglected,  and  his 
father  parted  from  him  in  anger.  He  earned  enor- 
mous sums  of  money,  and  his  advice  to  others  was 
always  admirable  ;  but  his  own  affairs  were  in  ever 
increasing  confusion.  He  was  always  involved  in 
debt ;  yet  his  accounts  as  a  government  officer  were 
scrupulously  accurate.  To  continue  the  antithesis 
would  be  easy,  for  the  story  of  his  life  is  a  series  ol 
antitheses ;  «but  to  suggest  a  clue  to  the  labyrinth  ol 
his  character  is  not  so  easy.  It  is  to  be  sought 
in  the  uncommon  conjunction  in  Sheridan  of  two 
irreconcilable  things,  a  very  high  standard  of  morals 
with  an  absence  of  training  and  discipline.  The 
latter  failing  vitiated  the  former  virtue.  Incapable 
of  keeping  himself  up  in  the  clear  air  and  on  the 
high  level  of  exalted  principle  to  which  he  aspired, 
he  was  far  less  careful  in  the  ordinary  duties  of  life 
than  are  those  whose  aim  is  not  so  lofty.  When  he, 


A   BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH.  1m 

found  that  he  could  not  attain  the  high  standard  he 
had  set  before  him,  he  cared  little  how  much  he  fell 
short  of  it  —  and  so  sank  below  the  ethical  mean  of 
ordinary  mortals.  There  was  nothing  venal  or  sor- 
did about  him ;  he  was  liked  by  all,  though  all  who 
liked  him  did  not  respect  him  ;  he  was  a  humorist 
even  in  his  code  of  morality.  He  always  meant  well, 
bnt  while  the  spirit  might  be  willing  the  flesh  was 
often  weak.  He  intended  to  be  not  merely  generous 
with  everybody,  but  also  absolutely  honest  and  up- 
right ;  his  heart  was  in  the  right  place,  as  the  saying 
is,  but  his  views  were  too  magnificent  for  his  means ; 
and  he  had  neither  self-denial  nor  self-discipline. 
When,  therefore,  he  had  once  put  himself  in  a  posi- 
tion where  he  was  unable  to  do  exactly  what  he  had 
agreed  to  do,  and  what  he  always  desired  to  do,  he 
ceased  to  care^whether  or  not  he  did  all  he  could. 
In  time  this  habit  grew  upon  him,  and  the  frequency 
of  failure  to  accomplish  what  he  had  intended, 
blunted  his  aspirations.  This  type  of  character  is 
not  as  uncommon  as  it  may  seem  at  first  sight.  Sub- 
stantially it  does  not  differ  greatly  from  the  The"rese 
of  '  Elle  et  Lui,'  which  a  biographer  of  George  Sand 
declares  to  be  "a  faithful  picture  of  a  woman  not 
quite  up  to  the  level  of  her  own  principles,  which  are 
so  high  that  any  lapse  from  them  on  her  part  brings 
down  more  disasters  on  herself  and  on  others  than 
the  misdemeanours  of  avowedly  unscrupulous  per- 
sons." In  Sheridan  this  type  was  modified  for  the 
worse  by  an  ambition  perilously  akin  to  vanity,  and 
by  an  indolence  accompanied  by  an  extraordinary 
power  of  hard  work  whenever  spurred  to  it  by  an 
extraordinary  motive.  This  vanity  and  this  indo- 
lence were  the  contending  evil  spirits  who  strove 
for  the  mastery  in  Sheridan's  later  days.  The  indo- 


liv  RICHARD  BRINSLEY  SHERIDAN. 

lence  encouraged  his  carelessness  in  money  matters ; 
and  the  vanity  or  ambition  or  pride  stiffened  his  im- 
practicably high  code  of  morality.  He  was  always 
paying  his  debts  in  a  large-handed,  reckless  way,  but 
he  was  never  out  of  debt.  He  scorned  to  examine 
an  account  or  to  catechise  a  claimant ;  when  he  had 
money  he  paid,  and  when  he  had  none,  he  promised 
to  pay  —  and  he  kept  his  word,  if  reminded  of  .it 
when  money  came  in.  All,  or  nearly  all,  of  his 
shares  in  the  rebuilt  theatre  were  given  to  credit- 
ors without  any  question  as  to  their  claims.  Sheri- 
dan stripped  himself  and  died  in  poverty  and  left 
but  few  creditors  unpaid.  From  sheer  heedlessness 
he  probably  had  paid  far  more  than  he  actually  owed  ; 
but  he  never  made  an  effort  to  investigate  his  liabili- 
ties, or  to  set  them  off  against  his  assets  to  see  the 
exact  state  of  his  affairs.  He  had  no^the  mercantile 
morality,  as  he  had  not  the  mercantile  training,  which 
would  have  stood  him  in  good  stead  so  often  in  his 
checkered  career.  But  he  had  personal  morality  in 
money  matters,  and  he  had  political  morality.  His 
nice  sense  of  honour  led  him  to  withdraw  his  wife 
from  the  concert-stage  as  soon  as  they  were  married. 
He  told  a  creditor  who  had  his  bond,  and  who  found 
him  in  unexpected  possession  of  money,  that  he  had 
to  use  the  money  to  meet  a  debt  of  honour ;  where- 
upon the  creditor  burnt  his  bond  before  his  face  and 
declared  his  debt  was  thereafter  a  debt  of  honour, 
and  Sheridan  paid  it  at  once.  In  his  political  career 
he  more  than  once  sacrificed  place  to  principle. 

As  Carlyle  says  of  Schiller,  "  We  should  not 
lightly  think  of  comprehending  the  very  simplest 
character  in  all  its  bearings ;  and  it  might  well 
argue  vanity  to  boast  of  even  a  common  acquaint- 
ance with  one  like "  Sheridan's,  which  was  even 


A   BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH.  lv 

more  complex  and  problematic  than  Schiller's. 
"  Such  men  as  he  are  misunderstood  by  their  daily 
companions,  much  more  by  the  distant  observer, 
who  gleans  his  information  from  scanty  records  and 
casual  notices  of  characteristic  events,  which  biog- 
raphers are  often  too  indolent  or  injudicious  to  col- 
lect, and  which  the  peaceful  life  of  a  man  of  letters 
usually  supplies  in  little  abundance."  From  this 
injudicious  indolence  of  biographers  no  man  has 
suffered  more  than  Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan. 
And  for  this  there  is  no  better  corrective  than  a 
reading  of  the  '  Monody  on  the  Death  of  Sheridan/ 
which  Byron  wrote,  to  be  delivered  at  the  opening 
of  Drury  Lane  Theatre  in  the  autumn.  Two  ex- 
tracts from  this  poem  may  serve  fitly  to  close 
this  brief  and  hasty  summary  of  Sheridan's  career 
and  character :  — 

"  But  should  there  be  to  whom  the  fatal  blight 
Of  failing  wisdom  yields  a  base  delight  — 
Men  who  exult  when  minds  of  heavenly  tone 
Jar  in  the  music  which  was  born  their  own  — 
Still  let  them  pause  —  ah  !  little  do  they  know 
That  what  to  them  seemed  vice  might  be  but  woe. 

******* 
Long  shall  we  seek  his  likeness,  long  in  vain, 
And  turn  to  all  of  him  which  may  remain, 
Sighing  that  nature  formed  but  one  such  man, 
And  broke  the  die,  in  moulding  Sheridan !  " 


THE    RIVALS. 


THE    RIVALS. 


IN  the  days  now  departed,  and  perhaps  forever, 
when  every  town  in  this  broad  land  had  its  theatre, 
with  its  own  stock-company  of  actors  and  actresses, 
the  manager  was  wont  once  and  away  to  announce, 
with  more  or  less  flourish  of  trumpets,  and  as  though 
he  were  doing  a  most  meritorious  thing,  a  series  of 
old-comedy  revivals.  Whenever  the  announcement 
was  put  forth,  the  regular  playgoer  retired  within 
himself,  and  made  ready  for  an  intellectual  treat. 
If  you  asked  the  regular  playgoer  for  a  list  of  the 
Old  Comedies,  it  was  odds  that  he  rattled  off,  glibly 
enough,  first,  the  '  School  for  Scandal,'  second, 
'  She  Stoops  to  Conquer,'  and  third,  the  '  Rivals.' 
After  these  he  might  hesitate,  but  if  you  pushed  him 
to  the  wall,  he  would  name"  a  few  more  plays,  of 
which  '  A  New  Way  to  Pay  Old  Debts  '  was  the 
oldest  and  .'  Money  '  the  youngest.  Leaving  the 
regular  playgoer,  and  investigating  for  yourself,  you 
will  find  that  the  Old  Comedies  are  mostly  those 
which,  in  spite  of  their  being  more  than  a  hundred 
years  old,  are  yet  lively  and  sprightly  enough  to 
amuse  a  modern  audience. 

^  The  life  of  a  drama,  even  of  a  successful  drama, 
is  rarely  three-score  years  and  ten  ;  and  the  num- 
ber of  dramas  which  live  to  be  centenarians  is  small 
indeed.     In  the  last  century  the  case  was  different ; 
lix 


Ix  THE  RIVALS. 

and  a  hundred  years  ago  the  regiriar  playgoer  had  a 
chance  to  see  frequently  eight  or  ten  pieces  by  Mas- 
singer,  Ben  Jonson,  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  and 
Shirley.  Nowadays,  Shakspere's  are  the  only  Eliza- 
bethan plays  which  keep  the  stage,  with  one  solitary 
exception  —  Massinger's  '  A  New  Way  to  Pay  Old 
Debts.'  The  '  Chances/  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher; 
the  '  City  Madam,'  of  Massinger ;  and  '  Every  Man 
in  his  Humour,'  of  Ben  Jonson  —  these  have  all,  one 
after  another,  dropped  out  of  sight.  The  comedies 
of  the  eighteenth  century  have  now  in  their  turn 
become  centenarians ;  of  these  there  are  half  a 
score  which  have  a  precarious  hold  on  the  theatre, 
and  are  seen  at  lengthening  intervals ;  and  there 
are  half  a  dozen  wrhich  hold  their  own  firmly.  Of 
this  scant  half-dozen,  the  '  School  for  Scandal '  is, 
perhaps,  in  the  greatest  request,  followed  closely  by 
'She  Stoops  to  Conquer'  and  the  'Rivals.'  Of 
late  the  '  Rivals '  has  been  seen  most  often  in  these 
United  States,  since  Mr.  Joseph  Jefferson,  laying 
aside  the  accent  and  the  tatters  of  that  ne'er-do-weel, 
Rip  Van  Winkle,  has  taken  on  the  counterfeit  pre- 
sentment of  Bob  Acres,  full  of  strange  oaths  and  of 
a  most  valiant  bearing ;  and  he  was  long  aided  and 
abetted  by  that  sterling  artist,  Mrs.  John  Drew,  as 
the  voluble  Mrs.  Malaprop. 

The  '  Rivals  '  was  Sheridan 's  first  play ;  it  was 
produced  at  Covent  Garden,  January  i7»O7J5> 
Like  the  first  plays  of  many  another  dramatist  who 
has  afterward  succeeded  abundantly,  it  failed  dis- 
mally on  its  first  performance,  and  again  on  the 
second,  the  night  after.  It  was  immediately  with- 
drawn ;  in  all  probability,  it  was  somewhat  rewritten  ; 
and  of  a  certainty  it  was  very  much  shortened. 
Then,  on  January  28,  after  a  ten  days'  absence 


INTRODUCTION.  Ixi 

from  the  bills,  it  reappeared,  with  Mr.  Clinch  in  the 
place  of  Mr.  Lee,  as  Sir  Lucius  O 'Trigger. 

Moore  remarks  that  as  comedy,  more  than  any 
other  species  of  composition,  requires  "  that  know- 
ledge of  human  nature  and  the  world  which  expe- 
rience alone  can  give,  —  it  seems  not  a  little 
extraordinary  that  nearly  all  our  first-rate  comedies 
should  have  been  the  productions  of  very  young 
men."  Moore  then  cites  Farquhar,  and  Vanbrugh, 
and  especially  Congreve,  all  of  whose  comedies 
were  written  before  he  was  twenty-five.  It  is  these 
three  writers  who  gave  the  stamp  to  English 
comedy;  and  Sheridan's  die  was  not  unlike  theirs. 
Now,  a  consideration  of  the  fact  that  English 
comedy  is  thus,  in  a  measure,  the  work  of  young 
men,  may  tend  to  explain  at  once  its  failings  and  its 
force.  As  Lessing  says :  "  Who  has  nothing  can 
give  nothing.  A  young  man,  just  entering  upon  the 
world  himself,  cannot  possibly  know  and  depict  the 
world."  And  this  is  just  the  weak  point  of  English 
comedy ;  it  is  brilliant  and  full  of  dash,  and  it 
carries  itself  bravely,  but  it  does  not  show  an  exact 
knowledge  of  the  world,  and  it  does  not  depict  with 
precision.  "The  greatest  comic  genius,"  Lessing 
adds,  "  shows  itself  empty  and  hollow  in  its  youth- 
ful works."  Empty  and  hollow  are  harsh  words  to 
apply  to  English  comedy ;  but  it  is  easy  to  detect, 
behind  all  its  glitter  and  sparkle,  a  want  of  depth,  a 
superficiality,  which  is  not  far  from  the  emptiness 
and  hollowness  of  which  Lessing  speaks.  Compare 
this  English  comedy  of  Congreve  and  of  Sheridan, 
which  is  a  battle  of  the  wits,  with  the  broader  and 
more  human  comedy  of  Moliere  and  of  Shakspere, 
ami  it  is  easy  to  see  what  Lessing  means.  In  place 
of  a  liberal  humanity,  is  an  exuberance  of  youthful 


Ixii  THE  RIVALS. 

fancy  and  wit,  delighting  in  its  exercise.  What 
gives  value  to  these  early  plays,  and  especially  to 
Sheridan's,  is  the  touch  of  the  true  dramatist  to  be 
seen  in  them ;  and  the  dramatist  is  like  the  poet  in 
so  far  that  he  is  born,  not  made. 

"  A  dramatic  author,"  says  the  younger  Alexandre 
Dumas,  "  as  he  advances  in  life,  can  acquire  higher 
thoughts,  can  develop  a  higher  philosophy,  can  con- 
ceive and  execute  works  of  stronger  tissue,  than 
when  he  began ;  in  a  word,  the  matter  he  can  cast 
into  his  mould  will  be  nobler  and  richer,  but  the  mould 
will  be  the  same."  Dumas  proceeded  to  show  how 
the  first  plays  of  Corneille,  of  Moliere,  and  of 
Racine,  from  a  technical  point  of  view,  are  as  well 
constructed  as  the  latest.  So  it  is  with  Congreve, 
and  Vanbrugh;  and  Farquhar,  and  Sheridan  ;  they 
gave  up  the  stage  before  they  had  great  experience 
of  the  world ;  but  they  were  born  dramatists.  All 
their  comedies  were  made  in  the  head,  not  in  the 
heart.  But  made  where  or  how  you  please,  they  are 
well  made.  It  is  impossible  to  deny  that  the  '  Rivals,' 
however  hollow  or  empty  it  may  appear  on  minute 
critical  inspection,  is  a  very  extraordinary  production 
for  a  young  man  of  twenty- three. 

Humour  ripens  slowly,  but  in  the  case  of  Sheridan 
some  forcing-house  of  circumstance  seems  to  have 
brought  it  to  an  early  maturity,  not  so  rich,  perhaps, 
or  so  mellow  as  it  might  have  become  with  time, 
and  yet  full  of  a  flavour  of  its  own.  Strangely 
enough,  the  early  '  Rivals  '  is  more  humorous  and 
less  witty  than  the  later  *  School  for  Scandal,'  —  per- 
haps because  the  humour  of  the  *  Rivals  '  is  rather 
the  frank  feeling  for  fun  and  appreciation  of  the 
incongruous  (both  of  which  may  be  youthful  quali- 
ties) than  the  deeper  and  broader  humour  which  we 
see  at  its  full  in  Moliere  and  Shakspere. 


INTRODUCTION.  Ixiii 

So  we  have  the  bold  outlines  of  Mrs.  Malaprop 
and  Bob  Acres,  personages  having  only  a  slight  like- 
ness to  nature,  and  not  always  even  consistent  to 
their  own  projection,  but  strong  in  comic  effect  and 
abundantly  laughter-compelling.  They  are  carica- 
tures, if  you  will,  but  caricatures  of  great  force,  full 
of  robust  fun,  tough  in  texture,  and  able  to  stand 
by  themselves,  in  spite  of  any  artistic  inequality. 
Squire  Acres  is  a  country  gentleman  of  limited  in- 
telligence, incapable  of  acquiring,  even  by  contagion, 
the  curious  system  of  referential  swearing  by  which 
he  gives  variety  to  his  speech.  But  "  odds,  bullets, 
and  blades  !  "  as  he  says,  his  indeterminate  valour  is 
so  aptly  utilized,  and  his  ultimate  poltroonery  in  the 
duel  scene  is  so  whimsically  developed,  and  so 
sharply  contrasted  with  the  Irish  assurance  and  ease 
of  Sir  Lucius  O'Trigger,  that  he  would  be  a  hard- 
hearted critic  indeed  who  could  taunt  Mr.  Acres  with 
his  artistic  short-comings.  And  it  surely  takes  a 
very  acute  mind  to  blunder  so  happily  in  the  "  de- 
rangement of  epitaphs"  as  does  Mrs.  Malaprop; 
she  must  do  it  with  malice  prepense,  and  as  though 
she,  and  not  her  niece,  were  as  "  headstrong  as  an 
allegory  on  the  banks  of  the  Nile."  It  is  only  a 
sober  second  thought,  however,  which  allows  us  to 
"cast  aspersions  on  her  parts  of  speech."  While 
Bob  Acres  and  Mrs.  Malaprop  are  before  us  we 
accept  them  as  they  are  ;  and  here  we  touch  what 
was  at  once  Sheridan's  weakness  and  his  strength, 
which  lay  side  by  side.  He  sought,  first  of  all,  theat- 
rical effect ;  dramatic  excellence  was  a  secondary 
and  subservient  consideration.  On  the  stage,  where 
all  goes  with  a  snap,  consistency  of  character  is  not 
as  important  as  distinctness  of  drawing.  The  attri- 
butes of  a  character  may  be  incongruous  if  they  make 


Ixiv  THE  RIVALS. 

the  character  itself  more  readily  recognizable ;  and 
the  attention  of  the  spectator  may  be  taken  from  the 
incongruity  by  humour  of  situation  and  quickness 
of  dialogue.  Acres's  odd  oaths  are  no  great  strain 
on  consistency,  and  they  help  to  fix  him  in  our 
memory.  Mrs.  Malaprop's  ingenuity  in  dislocating 
the  dictionary  is  very  amusing,  and  Sheridan  did 
not  hesitate  to  invent  extravagant  blunders  for  her, 
any  more  than  he  hesitated  to  lend  his  own  wit  to 
Fag  and  David,  the  servants,  who  were  surely  as 
incapable  of  appreciating  it  as  they  were  of  invent- 
ing it.  After  all,  Sheridan  had  to  live  on  his  wit ; 
and  he  wrote  his  plays  to  make  money  by  its  dis- 
play. And  the  more  of  himself  he  put  into  each  of 
his  characters,  the  more  brilliant  the  play.  To  say 
this  is,  of  course,  to  say  that  Sheridan  belongs  in 
the  second  rank  of  comedy  writers,  with  Congreve 
and  Regnard,  and  not  in  the  class  with  Shakspere 
and  Moliere.  But  humour  and  an  insight  into  human 
nature  are  not  found  united  with  the  play-making 
faculty  once  in  a  century ;  there  is  only  one  Shak- 
spere, and  only  one  Moliere.  It  is  well  that  a  quick 
wit  and  a  lively  fancy  can  amuse  us  not  unsatisfac- 
torily, and  that,  in  default  of  Shakspere  and  Moliere, 
we  have  at  least  Beaumarchais  and  Sheridan. 

It  is  well  that  Sheridan  wrote  the  '  Rivals  '  just 
when  he  did,  or  else  both  wit  and  humour  might 
have  been  banished  from  the  English  stage  for 
years.  That  there  was  ever  any  danger  of  English 
comedy  stiffening  itself  into  prudish  priggishness  it 
is  not  easy  now  to  credit ;  but  in  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury the  danger  was  real.  A  school  of  critics  had 
arisen  who  prescribed  that  comedy  should  be  gen- 
teel, and  that  it  should  eschew  all  treatment  of  ordi- 
nary human  nature,  confining  itself  chiefly  to  sentiment 


INTRODUCTION.  Ixv 

in  high  life.  A  school  of  dramatists,  beginning  with 
Steele  (whom  it  is  sad  to  see  in  such  company),  and 
including  Cumberland  and  Hugh  Kelly,  taught  by 
example  what  these  critics  set  forth  by  precept.  The 
bulk  of  playgoers  were  never  converted  to  these 
principles,  but  they  obtained  in  literary  society  and 
were,  for  the  moment,  fashionable.  There  were  not 
lacking  those  who  protested.  Fielding,  who  had 
studied  out  something  of  the  secret  of  Moliere's 
humour  in  the  adaptations  he  made  from  the  author 
of  the  '  Miser,'  had  no  sympathy  with  the  new  school ; 
and  when  he  came  to  write  his  great  novel,  '  Tom 
Jones,'  he  had  a  sly  thrust  or  two  at  the  fashion.  He 
introduces  to  us,  for  example,  a  puppet-show  which 
was  performed  "  with  great  regularity  and  decency. 
It  was  called  the  fine  and  serious  part  of  the  *  Pro- 
voked Husband,'  and  it  was  indeed  a  very  grave  and 
solemn  entertainment,  without  any  low  wit,  or 
humour,  or  jests ;  or,  to  do  it  no  more  than  justice, 
anything  which  could  provoke  a  laugh.  The  audi- 
ence were  all  highly  pleased." 

'  Tom  Jones  '  was  published  in  1749  ;  and  in  1773 
Sentimental-Comedy  still  survived,  and  was  ready  to 
sneer  at  Goldsmith's  *  She  Stoops  to  Conquer,'  and 
to  call  its  hearty  and  almost  boisterous  humour 
"  low."  But  Tony  Lumpkin's  country  laugh  cleared 
the  atmosphere.  Sentimental-Comedy  had  received 
a  deadly  blow.  Some  months  before  '  She  Stoops  to 
Conquer  '  was  brought  out,  Foote  had  helped  to 
make  the  way  straight  for  a  revival  of  true  comedy, 
whereat  a  man  might  venture  to  laugh,  by  announc- 
ing a  play  for  his  "  Primitive  Puppet-show/'  called 
the  '  Handsome  Housemaid,  or  Piety  in  Pattens,' 
which  was  to  illustrate  how  a  maiden  of  low  degree, 
by  the  mere  effects  of  her  morality  and  virtue,  raised 


Ixvi  THE  RIVALS. 

herself  to  honour  and  riches.  In  his  life  of  Garrick, 
Tom  Davies  tells  us  that  '  Piety  in  Pattens  '  killed 
Sentimental-Comedy,  although  until  then  Hugh 
Kelly's  '  False  Delicacy '  had  been  the  favourite 
play  of  the  times.  It  is,  perhaps,  true  that  Foote 
scotched  the  snake  ;  it  is  certain,  however,  that  it  was 
Sheridan  who  killed  it.  Two  years  after  Goldsmith 
and  Foote  came  Sheridan ;  and  after  the  '  Rivals  ' 
there  was  little  chance  for  Sentimental-Comedy. 
Moore  prints  passages  from  an  early  sketch  of  a 
farce,  from  which  we  can  see  that  Sheridan  never 
took  kindly  to  the  sentimental  school.  Yet  so  anx- 
ious was  he  for  the  success  of  the  '  Rivals,'  and  so 
important  was  this  success  to  him,  that  he  attempted 
to  conciliate  the  wits  and  fine  ladies  who  were  bitten 
by  the  current  craze  ;  at  least  it  is  difficult  to  see  any 
other  reason  for  the  characters  of  Julia  and  Faulk- 
land,  so  different  from  all  Sheridan  s  other  work,  and 
so  wholly  wanting  in  the  sparkle  in  which  he  ex- 
celled. And  the  calculation  was  seemingly  not  un- 
wise ;  the  scenes  between  Julia  and  Faulkland,  to 
which  we  now  listen  with  dumb  impatience,  and 
which  Mr.  Jefferson,  in  his  version  of  the  piece,  has 
trimmed  away,  were  received  with  delight.  John 
Bernard,  who  was  at  one  time  secretary  of  the  Beef- 
steak Club,  and  afterward  one  of  the  first  of  Ameri- 
can managers,  records  in  his  amusing  '  Retrospec- 
tions '  that  the  audience  at  the  first  performance  of 
the  'Rivals'  contained  "  two  parties  —  those  sup- 
porting the  prevailing  taste,  and  those  who  were  in- 
different to  it,  and  liked  nature.  On  the  first  night 
of  a  new  play  it  was  very  natural  that  the  former 
should  predominate,  and  what  was  the  consequence  ? 
Why,  that  Faulkland  and  Julia  (which  Sheridan  had 
obviously  introduced  to  conciliate  the  sentimental- 


INTRODUCTION.  Ixvii 

ists,  but  which,  in  the  present  day,  are  considered 
incumbrances)  were  the  characters  most  favourably 
received,  whilst  Sir  Anthony  Absolute,  Bob  Acres, 
and  Lydia,  those  faithful  and  diversified  pictures  of 
life,  were  barely  tolerated." 

But  the  sentimentalists  were  afterward  present  in 
diminishing  force  ;  and  the  real  success  of  the  comedy 
came  from  those  who  could  appreciate  its  fun  and 
who  were  not  too  genteel  to  laugh.  So  Sheridan, 
writing  a  new  prologue  to  be  spoken  on  the  tenth 
night,  drew  attention  to  the  figure  of  Comedy  (which 
stood  on  one  side  of  the  stage,  as  Tragedy  did  on 
the  other)  ^  and  bade  the  audience 

"  Look  on  her  well  —  does  she  seem  form'd  to  teach? 
Should  you  expect  to  hear  this  lady  —  preach? 
Is  gray  experience  suited  to  her  youth? 
Do  solemn  sentiments  become  that  mouth? 
Yet,  thus  adorned  with  every  graceful  art 
To  charm  the  fancy  and  to  reach  the  heart, 
Must  we  displace  her?  and  instead  advance 
The  goddess  of  the  woful  countenance?  — 
The  Sentimental  Muse  !  —  Her  emblems  view  — 
The  *  Pilgrim's  Progress  '  and  a  sprig  of  rue  ! 
There  fixed  in  usurpation  should  she  stand, 
She'll  snatch  the  dagger  from  her  sister's  hand  ; 
And  having  made  her  votaries  iveep  a  flood, 
Good  heaven !  she'll  end  her  comedies  in  blood  !  " 

Sheridan's  use  of  the  figures  of  Comedy  and  Trag- 
edy is  characteristic  of  his  aptness  in  turning  to  his 
own  advantage  any  accident  upon  which  his  quick  wit 
could  seize.  Characteristic,  too,  is  the  willingness 
to  borrow  a  hint  from  another.  Sheridan  was  not 
above  taking  his  matter  wherever  he  found  it.  In- 
deed, there  are  not  wanting  those  who  say  that  Sheri- 
dan had  nothing  of  his  own,  and  was  barely  able  to 
cover  his  mental  nakedness  with  rags  stolen  every- 


Ixviii  THE  RIVALS. 

where.  John  Forster  declared  that  Lydia  Languish 
and  her  lover  owed  something  to  Steele's  '  Tender 
Husband.'  Dibdin,  in  his  '  History  of  the  Stage,'  says 
that  Lydia  was  stolen. from  Colman's  Polly  Honey- 
combe.  Whipple  found  that  Sir  Anthony  Absolute 
was  suggested  by  Smollett's  Matthew  Bramble; 
and,  improving  on  this,  Thomas  Arnold,  in  the  article 
on  English  Literature  in  the  Encyclopaedia  Britan- 
nica,  spoke  of  the  '  Rivals '  as  dug  out  of  *  Hum- 
phrey Clinker.'  Watkins,  Sheridan's  first  biographer, 
had  already  pretended  to  trace  Mrs.  Malaprop  to 
a  waiting-woman  in  Fielding's  '  Joseph  Andrews  ' ; 
other  critics  had  called  her  a  reproduction  of  Mrs, 
Heidelberg,  in  Colman  and  Garrick's  '  Clandestine 
Marriage.'  And  a  more  recent  writer  spoke  of 
Theodore  Hook's  '  Ramsbottom  Papers  '  as  contain- 
ing the  original  of  all  the  Mrs.  Malaprops  and  Mrs. 
Partingtons.  Not  only  were  the  characters  thus  all 
copied  here  and  there,  but  the  incidents  also  are 
stolen.  Moore  and  Mrs.  Inchbald  point  out  that 
Faulkland's  trial  of  Julia's  affection  by  a  pretended 
danger  and  need  of  instant  flight,  is  anticipated 
both  in  Prior's  '  Nut-brown  Maid,'  and  in  Smollett's 
'Peregrine  Pickle  ';  and  Boaden,  in  his  biography  of 
Kemble,  finds  the  same  situation  in  the  '  Memoirs 
of  Miss  Sidney  Biddulph,'  a  novel  by  Sheridan's 
mother,  which  was  once  very  popular,  but  which 
Sheridan  told  Rogers  he  had  never  read.  Not  con- 
tent with  thus  robbing  Sheridan  of  the  constituent 
parts  of  his  play,  an  attempt  has  been  made  to  de- 
prive him  of  the  play  itself.  Under  the  head  of 
Literary  Gossip,  a  British  weekly  called  The  Athe- 
naum,  on  January  i,  1876,  had  this  paragraph  :  — 

"  A  very  curious  and  most  interesting  fact  has  come  to  light 
at   the  British  Museum.     Among   the   collection   of  old   plays 


INTRODUCTION.  Ixix 

(presented  to  that  institution  by  Mr.  Coventry  Patmore  in  1864) 
which  formerly  belonged  to  Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan,  has  been 
found  the  holograph  original  of  the  comedy  'The  Trip  to  Bath,' 
written  in  1749,  by  Mrs.  Frances  Sheridan,  his  mother,  and 
which,  it  is  said  in  Moore's  '  Life  of  Sheridan,'  was  the  source 
of  his  play  of  the  '  Rivals.'  A  very  slight  comparison  of  the  two 
plays  leaves  no  doubt  whatever  of  the  fact  ;  and  in  the  char- 
acter of  Mrs.  Malaprop,  Sheridan  has  actually  borrowed  some 
of  her  amusing  blunders  from  the  original  Mrs.  Tryfort  without 
any  alteration  whatever." 

I  have  massed  these  accusations  together  to  meet 
them  with  a  general  denial.  I  have  compared  Sheri- 
dan's characters  and  incidents  with  the  so-called 
originals  ;  and  I  confess  that  I  can  see  very  little 
likeness  in  any  case,  and  no  ground  at  all  for  a 
charge  of  plagiarism.  It  is  not  that  Sheridan  was 
at  all  above  borrowing  from  his  neighbour :  .it  is  that 
in  the  '  Rivals  '  he  did  not  so  borrow,  or  that  his 
borrowings  are  trifling  and  trivial  both  in  quantity 
and  quality.  Polly  Honeycombe,  for  example,  is 
like  Lydia  Languish  in  her  taste  for  novel-reading, 
in  her  romantic  notions,  and  in  nothing  else ;  Polly 
figures  in  farce,  and  Lydia  in  high  comedy ;  Polly 
is  a  shopkeeper's  daughter,  and  Lydia  has  the  fine 
airs  of  good  society.  It  is  as  hard  to  see  a  likeness 
between  Polly  and  Lydia,  as  it  is  to  see  just  what 
Sheridan  owes  to  Steele's  '  Tender  Husband.'  The 
accusation  that  the  '  Rivals  '  is  indebted  to  '  Hum- 
phrey Clinker '  is  absurd  ;  Sir  Anthony  Absolute  is 
not  at  all  like  Mr.  Matthew  Bramble ;  indeed,  in  all 
of  Smollett's  novel,  of  which  the  humour  is  so  rich, 
not  to  say  oily,  there  is  nothing  which  recalls  Sheri- 
dan's play,  save  possibly  Mistress  Tabitha  Bramble, 
who  is  an  old  woman,  anxious  to  marry,  and  mis- 
taking a  proposal  for  her  niece  to  be  one  for  her 
own  hand,  and  who  blunders  in  her  phrases.  How 


Ixx  THE  RIVALS. 

far,  however,  from  Sheridan's  neat  touch  is  Smollett's 
coarse  stroke  !  "  Mr.  Gwynn,"  says  Mistress  Tabi- 
tha  to  Quin  the  actor,  "  I  was  once  vastly  enter- 
tained with  your  playing  the  l  Ghost  of  Gimlet '  at 
Drury  Lane,  when  you  rose  up  through  the  stage 
with  a  white  face  and  red  eyes,  and  spoke  of  quails 
upon  the  frightful  porcupine"  Mrs.  Slipslop,  in 
'  Joseph  Andrews/  has  also  a  misapplication  of 
words,  but  never  so  aptly  incongruous  and  so  exactly 
inaccurate  as  Mrs.  Malaprop.  This  trick  of  speech 
is  all  either  Mistress  Bramble  or  Mrs.  Slipslop  have 
in  common  with  Mrs.  Malaprop  ;  and  Mrs.  Heidelberg 
has  not  even  this.  The  charge  that  Mrs.  Malaprop 
owes  aught  to  Theodore  Hook  is  highly  comic  and 
preposterous,  as  Hook  was  born  in  1788,  and  pub- 
lished the  'Ramsbottom  Papers'  between  1824  and 
1828 — say  half  a  century  after  Mrs.  Malaprop  had 
proved  her  claim  to  immortality.  And  it  is  scarcely 
less  comic  and  preposterous  to  imagine  that  Sheridan 
could  have  derived  the  scene  between  Julia  and  Faulk- 
land  from  Prior's  *  Nut-brown  Maid,'  and  from  Smol- 
lett's '  Peregrine  Pickle,'  and  from  Mrs.  Sheridan's 
1  Sidney  Biddulph  ' ;  the  situation  in  the  play  differs 
materially  from  those  in  the  three  other  productions. 
Remains  only  the  sweeping  charge  of  The  Athenceum  ; 
and  this  well-nigh  as  causeless  as  the  rest.  The  manu- 
script of  which  The  Athenceum  speaks  is  No.  2 5, 9 7 5,  and 
it  is  called  '  A  Journey  to  Bath  ' ;  it  ends  with  the 
third  act,  and  two  more  are  evidently  wanting.  It 
is  only  "  a  very  slight  comparison  "  of  this  comedy 
of  Mrs.  Sheridan's  with  her  son's  '  Rivals,'  which 
"  leaves  no  doubt  whatever  "  of  the  taking  of  the 
latter  from  the  former.  I  have  read  the  '  Journey 
to  Bath '  very  carefully ;  it  is  a  rather  lively  comedy, 
such  as  were  not  uncommon  in  1750  ;  and  it  is  wholly 


INTRODUCTION.  Ixxi 

unlike  the  '  Rivals.'  The  characters  of  the  '  Journey 
to  Bath  '  are  :  Lord  Hewkly  ;  Sir  Jeremy  Bull,  Bart; 
Sir  Jonathan  Bull,  his  brother,  a  city  knight ;  Edward, 
son  to  Sir  Jonathan  ;  Champignon  ;  Stapleton  ;  Lady 
Filmot ;  Lady  Bel  Aircastle ;  Mrs.  Tryfort,  a  citi- 
zen's widow ;  Lucy,  her  daughter ;  Mrs.  Surface, 
one  who  keeps  a  lodging-house  at -Bath.  Mrs.  Sur- 
face, it  may  be  noted,  is  a  scandalmonger,  who  hates 
scandal ;  and  Sheridan  used  both  the  name  and  the 
character  in  his  later  and  more  brilliant  comedy. 
In  the  'Journey  to  Bath'  and  the  'Rivals,'  the 
scenes  are  laid  at  Bath ;  and  here  the  likeness  ends 
—  except  that  Mrs.  Tryfort  seems  to  be  a  sort  of 
first  draft  of  Mrs.  Malaprop.  It  is  difficult  to  doubt 
that  Sheridan  had  read  his  mother's  comedy  and 
had  claimed  as  his  by  inheritance  this  Mrs.  Try- 
fort,  who  is  described  by  one  of  the  other  characters 
as  the  "  vainest  poor  creature,  and  the  fondest  of 
hard  words,  which,  without  miscalling,  she  always 
takes  care  to  misapply."  Few  of  her  misapplications, 
however,  are  as  happy  as  those  of  Mrs.  Malaprop. 

After  all,  the  invention  is  rather  Shakspere's  than 
Mrs.  Sheridan's.  Mrs.  Malaprop  is  but  Dogberry 
in  petticoats.  And  the  fault  of  which  Whipple 
accused  Sheridan  may  be  laid  at  Shakspere's  door 
also.  Whipple  called  Mrs.  Malaprop's  mistakes 
"too  felicitously  infelicitous  to  be  natural,"  and 
declares  them  "  characteristic,  not  of  a  mind  flip- 
pantly stupid,  but  curiously  acute,"  and  that  we 
laugh  at  her  as  we  should  at  an  acquaintance  "  who 
was  exercising  his  ingenuity,  instead  of  exposing  his 
ignorance."  This  is  all  very  true,  but  true  it  is  also 
that  Dogberry  asked,  "  Who  think  you  to  be  the 
most  desertless  man  to  be  constable  ?  "  And  again, 
"  Is  our  whole  dissembly  appeared  ?  "  And  "  O 


Ixxii  THE  RIVALS. 

villain  !  thou  wilt  be  condemned  into  everlasting 
redemption  for  this !  "  Sheridan  has  blundered  in 
good  company,  at  all  events. 

Not  content  with  finding  suggestions  for  Sheridan's 
work  in  various  fictions,  his  earliest  biographer,  Dr. 
Watkins,  suggests  that  the  plot  of  the  l  Rivals  '  was 
taken  from  life,  having  been  suggested  by  his  own 
courtship  of  Miss  Linley  and  the  ensuing  duel  with 
Captain  Mathews.  And  a  later  biographer,  Mrs. 
Oliphant,  chose  to  identify  Miss  Lydia  Languish 
with  Mrs.  Sheridan.  Both  suggestions  are  absurd. 
There  is  no  warrant  whatever  for  the  assumption 
that  any  similarity  existed  between  Miss  Linley  and 
Miss  Languish  ;  and  the  incidents  of  Sheridan's 
comedy  do  not  at  all  coincide  with  the  incidents  of 
Sheridan's  biography.  Already,  in  his  l  Maid  of 
Bath,'  had  Foote  set  Miss  Linley  and  one  of  her 
suitors  on  the  stage ;  and  surely  Sheridan,  who 
would  not  let  his  wife  sing  in  public,  would  shrink 
from  putting  the  story  of  their  courtship  into  a 
comedy.  It  has  been  suggested,  though,  that  in  the 
duel  scene  Sheridan  profited  by  his  own  experience 
on  the  field  of  honour  ;  and  also,  that  in  the  char- 
acter of  Faulkland  he  sketched  his  own  state  of 
mind  during  the  long  hours  of  waiting,  when  he  was 
desperately  in  love,  and  saw  little. hope  of  marital 
happiness ;  in  the  days  when  he  had  utilized  the 
devices  of  the  stage,  and  for  the  sake  of  getting  near 
to  her  for  a  few  minutes,  he  had  disguised  himself 
as  the  coachman  who  drove  her  at  night  to  her 
father's  house.  This  may  be  true ;  but  it  is  as 
dangerous  as  it  is  easy  to  apply  the  speeches  of  a 
dramatist,  speaking  in  many  a  feigned  voice,  to  the 
circumstances  of  his  own  life. 

The    '  Rivals,'  as  a  play,  has  suffered  the  usual 


INTRODUCTION.  Ixxiii 

vicissitudes  of  all  old  favourites.  Although  never 
long  forgotten,  it  has  been  now  and  again  neglected 
and  now  and  again  harshly  treated.  Of  late  years 
the  parts  of  Faulkland  and  Julia  have  been  much 
curtailed  when  the  comedy  has  been  acted  in  Eng- 
land ;  and  in  the  admirable  revival  effected  in  1880 
by  Mr.  Joseph  Jefferson  in  the  United  States,  Julia 
was  wholly  omitted  and  Faulkland  was  suffered  to 
remain  only  that  he  might  serve  as  a  foil  to  Bob 
Acres.  It  is  pleasant  to  note  that  when  the  play 
was  produced  at  the  Hay  market  Theatre  in  London 
by  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bancroft,  the  parts  of  Julia  and 
Faulkland  were  restored  to  their  pristine  importance. 
In  the  Haymarket  revival  of  1884,  as  in  a  highly 
successful  revival  at  the  Vaudeville  Theatre  (where 
in  1882-3  tne  comedy  was  acted  more  than  two  hun- 
dred times),  the  part  of  Mrs.  Malaprop  was  per- 
formed by  Mrs.  Sterling,  whose  reading  of  the  part, 
although  more  conscious  and  affected  than  Mrs. 
Drew's,  was  as  effective  as  any  author  could  desire. 
In  the  United  States  we  were  fortunate  in  the  pos- 
session of  Mr.  John  Gilbert,  whose  Sir  Anthony 
Absolute  may  be  matched  with  the  great  Sir  An- 
thonys of  the  past.  We  may  be  sure  that  Mr. 
Gilbert's  fine  artistic  conscience  would  forbid  his 
repetition  of  a  freak  of  Dowton's,  who  once,  for  a 
benefit,  gave  up  Sir  Anthony  to  appear  as  Mrs. 
Malaprop. 

Nor  was  this  the  only  occasion  when  a  man  played 
a  woman's  part  in  this  comedy.  In  his  autobiog- 
raphy, Kotzebue  (from  whom  the  author  of  the 
*  Rivals  '  was  afterward  to  borrow  '  Pizarro  ')  records 
the  performance  of  the  English  comedy  in  German 
in  the  cloister  of  the  Minoret's  Convent,  a  perform- 
ance in  which  the  future  German  dramatist,  then  a 


Ixxiv  THE  RIVALS. 

mere  youth,  doubled  the  parts  of  Julia  and  Acres ! 
In  German  as  in  French,  there  is  more  than  one 
translation  or  adaptation  of  the  '  Rivals  ' ;  and  some 
of  them  are  not  without  a  comicality  of  their  own. 
It  is  to  be  remembered,  also,  that  on  the  celebrated 
visit  of  the  English  actors  to  Paris,  in  1827,  —  a 
visit  which  had  great  influence  on  the  development 
of  French  dramatic  literature,  and  which  may, 
indeed,  be  called  the  exciting  cause  of  the  Romantic 
movement,  —  the  first  play  presented  to  the  Parisian 
public  by  the  English  actors  was  the  *  Rivals.' 


AUTHOR'S    PREFACE. 


A  PREFACE  to  a  play  seems  generally  to  be  con- 
sidered as  a  kind  of  closet-prologue,  in  which  —  if 
his  piece  has  been  successful  —  the  author  solicits 
that  indulgence  from  the  reader  which  he  had  be- 
fore experienced  from  the  audience  ;  but  as  the  scope 
and  immediate  object  of  a  play  is  to  please  a  mixed 
assembly  in  representation  (whose  judgment  in  the 
theatre  at  least  is  decisive),  its  degree  of  reputation 
is  usually  as  determined  as  public,  before  it  can  be 
prepared  for  the  cooler  tribunal  of  the  study.  Thus 
any  further  solicitude  on  the  part  of  the  writer  be- 
comes unnecessary  at  least,  if  not  an  intrusion  ;  and 
if  the  peace  has  been  condemned  in  the  perform- 
ance, I  fear  an  address  to  the  closet,  like  an  appeal 
to  posterity,  is  constantly  regarded  as  the  procras- 
tination of  a  suit,  from  a  consciousness  of  the  weak- 
ness of  the  cause.  From  these  considerations,  the 
following  comedy  would  certainly  have  been  sub- 
mitted to  the  reader,  without  any  further  introduc- 
tion than  what  it  had  in  the  representation,  but  that 
its  success  has  probably  been  founded  on  a  circum- 
stance which  the  author  is  informed  has  not  before 
attended  a  theatrical  trial,  and  which  consequently 
ought  not  to  pass  unnoticed. 

I  need  scarcely  add,  that  the  circumstance  alluded 
to  was  the  withdrawing  of  the  piece,  to  remove  those 
Ixxv 


Ixxvi  THE  RIVALS. 

imperfections  in  the  first  representation  which  were 
too  obvious  to  escape  reprehension,  and  too  numer- 
ous to  admit  of  a  hasty  correction.  There  are  few 
writers,  I  believe,  who,  even  in  the  fullest  conscious- 
ness of  error,  do  not  wish  to  palliate  the  faults  which 
they  acknowledge :  and,  however  trifling  the  per- 
formance, to  second  their  confession  of  its  deficien- 
cies, by  whatever  plea  seems  least  disgraceful  to  their 
ability.  In  the  present  instance,  it  cannot  be  said 
to  amount  either  to  candour  or  modesty  in  me,  to 
acknowledge  an  extreme  inexperience  and  want  of 
judgment  on  matters,  in  which,  without  guidance 
from  practice,  or  spur  from  success,  a  young  man 
should  scarcely  boast  of  being  an  adept.  If  it  be 
said,  that  under  such  disadvantages  no  one  should 
attempt  to  write  a  play,  I  must  beg  leave  to  dissent 
from  the  position,  while  the  first  point  of  experience 
that  I  have  gained  on  the  subject  is,  a  knowledge  of 
the  candour  and  judgment  with  which  an  impartial 
public  distinguishes  between  the  errors  of  inexpe- 
rience and  incapacity,  and  the  indulgence  which  it 
shows  even  to  a  disposition  to  remedy  the  defects  of 
either. 

It  were  unnecessary  to  enter  into  any  further  ex- 
tenuation of  what  was  thought  exceptionable  in  this 
play,  but  that  it  has  been  said,  that  the  managers 
should  have  prevented  some  of  the  defects  before  its 
appearance  to  the  public  —  and  in  particular  the  un- 
common length  of  the  piece  as  represented  the  first 
night.  It  were  an  ill  return  for  the  most  liberal  and 
gentlemanly  conduct  on  their  side,  to  suffer  any  cen- 
sure to  rest  where  none  was  deserved.  Hurry  in 
writing  has  long  been  exploded  as  an  excuse  for  an 
author ;  however,  in  the  dramatic  line,  it  may  hap- 
pen, that  both  an  author  and  a  manager  may  wish  to 


AUTHOR'S  PREFACE.  Ixxvii 

fill  a  chasm  in  the  entertainment  of  the  public  with 
a  hastiness  not  altogether  culpable.  The  season  was 
advanced  when  I  first  put  the  play  into  Mr.  Harris's 
hands  ;  it  was  at  that  time  at  least  double  the  length 
of  any  acting  comedy.  I  profited  by  his  judgment 
and  experience  in  the  curtailing  of  it  —  till,  I  believe, 
his  feeling  for  the  vanity  of  a  young  author  got  the 
better  of  his  desire  for  correctness,  and  he  left  many 
excrescences  remaining,  because  he  had  assisted  in 
pruning  so  many  more.  Hence,  though  I  was  not 
uninformed  that  the  acts  were  still  too  long,  I  flat- 
tered myself  that,  after  the  first  trial,  I  might  with 
safer  judgment  proceed  to  remove  what  should  ap- 
pear to  have  been  most  dissatisfactory.  Many  other 
errors  there  were,  which  might  in  part  have  arisen 
from  my  being  by  no  means  conversant  wath  plays 
in  general,  either  in  reading  or  at  the  theatre.  Yet 
I  own  that,  in  one  respect,  I  did  not  regret  my  igno- 
rance ;  for  as  my  first  wish  in  attempting  a  play  was 
to  avoid  every  appearance  of  plagiary,  I  thought  I 
should  stand  a  better  chance  of  effecting  this  from 
being  in  a  walk  which  I  had  not  frequented,  and 
where,  consequently,  the  progress  of  invention  was 
less  likely  to  be  interrupted  by  starts  of  recollec- 
tion :  for  on  subjects  on  which  the  mind  has  been 
much  informed,  invention  is  slow  of  exerting  itself. 
Faded  ideas  float  in  the  fancy  like  half-forgotten 
dreams ;  and  the  imagination  in  its  fullest  enjoy- 
ments becomes  suspicious  of  its  offspring,  and  doubts 
whether  it  has  created  or  adopted. 

With  regard  to  some  particular  passages  which  on 
the  first  night's  representatic-n  seemed  generally  dis- 
liked, I  confess,  that  if  I  felt  any  emotion  of  surprise 
at  the  disapprobation,  it  was  not  that  they  were  dis- 
approved of,  but  that  I  had  not  before  perceived  that 


Ixxviii  THE  RIVALS. 

they  deserved  it.  As  some  part  of  the  attack  on 
the  piece  was  begun  too  early  to  pass  for  the  sentence 
of  judgment,  which  is  ever  tardy  in  condemning,  it 
has  been  suggested  to  me,  that  much  of  the  disappro- 
bation must  have  arisen  from  virulence  of  malice, 
rather  than  severity  of  criticism  ;  but  as  I  was  more 
apprehensive  of  there  being  just  grounds  to  excite 
the  latter  than  conscious  of  having  deserved  the 
former,  I  continue  not  to  believe  that  probable,  which 
I  am  sure  must  have  been  unprovoked.  However, 
if  it  was  so,  and  I  could  even  mark  the  quarter  from 
whence  it  came,  it  would  be  ungenerous  to  retort ; 
for  no  passion  suffers  more  than  malice  from  disap- 
pointment. For  my  own  part,  I  see  no  reason  why 
the  author  of  a  play  should  not  regard  a  first  night's 
audience  as  a  candid  and  judicious  friend  attending, 
in  behalf  of  the  public,  at  his  last  rehearsal.  If  he 
can  dispense  with  flattery,  he  is  sure  at  least  of  sin- 
cerity, and  even  though  the  annotation  be  rude,  he 
may  rely  upon  the  justness  of  the  comment.  Con- 
sidered in  this  light,  that  audience,  whose  fiat  is 
essential  to  the  poet's  claim,  whether  his  object  be 
fame  or  profit,  has  surely  a  right  to  expect  some 
deference  to  its  opinion,  from  principles  of  politeness 
at  least,  if  not  from  gratitude. 

As  for  the  little  puny  critics,  who  scatter  their  peev- 
ish strictures  in  private  circles,  and  scribble  at  every 
author  who  has  the  eminence  of  being  unconnected 
with  them,  as  they  are  usually  spleen-swoln  from  a 
vain  idea  of  increasing  their  consequence,  there  will 
always  be  found  a  petulance  and  illiberality  in  their 
remarks  which  should  place  them  as  far  beneath  the 
notice  of  a  gentleman,  as  their  original  dulness  had 
sunk  them  from  the  level  of  the  most  unsuccessful 
author. 


AUTHORS  PREFACE.  Ixxix 

It  is  not  without  pleasure  that  I  catch  at  an  oppor- 
tunity of  justifying  myself  from  the  charge  of  intend- 
ing any  national  reflection  in  the  character  of  Sir 
Lucius  O 'Trigger.  If  any  gentlemen  opposed  the 
piece  from  that  idea,  I  thank  them  sincerely  for  their 
opposition  ;  and  if  the  condemnation  of  this  comedy 
(however  misconceived  the  provocation),  could  have 
added  one  spark  to  the  decaying  flame  of  national 
attachment  to  the  country  supposed  to  be  reflected 
on,  I  should  have  been  happy  in  its  fate ;  and  might 
with  truth  have  boasted,  that  it  had  done  more  real 
service  in  its  failure  than  the  successful  morality  of 
a  thousand  stage-novels  will  ever  effect. 

It  is  usual,  I  believe,  to  thank  the  performers  in  a 
new  play,  for  the  exertion  of  their  several  abilities. 
But  where  (as  in  this  instance)  their  merit  has  been 
so  striking  and  uncontro verted,  as  to  call  for  the 
warmest  and  truest  applause  from  a  number  of  judi- 
cious audiences,  the  poet's  after-praise  comes  like 
the  feeble  acclamation  of  a  child  to  close  the 
shouts  of  a  multitude.  The  conduct,  however,  of 
the  principals  in  a  theatre  cannot  be  so  apparent 
to  the  public.  I  think  it,  therefore,  but  justice  to 
declare  that  from  this  theatre  (the  only  one  I  can 
speak  of  from  experience)  those  writers  who  wish  to 
try  the  dramatic  line  will  meet  with  that  candour  and 
liberal  attention  which  are  generally  allowed  to  be 
better  calculated  to  lead  genius  into  excellence,  than 
either  the  precepts  of  judgment,  or  the  guidance  of 
experience. 

THE  AUTHOR. 


THE    RIVALS. 


DRAMATIS    PERSONS, 

AS   ORIGINALLY  ACTED  AT  COVENT-GARDEN   THEATRE 
IN   1775. 


SIR  ANTHONY  ABSOLUTE  ....  Mr.  Shuter. 

CAPTAIN  ABSOLUTE Mr.  Woodward. 

FAULKLAND Mr.  Lewis. 

ACRES         .        .         .        .         .         .        .  Mr.  Quick. 

SIR  Lucius  OTRIGGER       ....  Mr.  Lee.1 

FAG Mr.  Lee  Lewes. 

DAVID Mr.  Dunstal. 

THOMAS Mr.  Fearon. 

MRS.  MALAPROP,.^ Mrs.  Green. 

LYDIA  LANGUISH        ..*•.,  Miss  Barsanti. 

JULIA Mrs.  Bulkley. 

LUCY  ........  Mrs.  Lessingham. 

Maid,  Boy,  Servants,  etc. 


SCENE  — BATH. 
Time  of  Action  —  Five  Hours. 


1  Afterwards  by  Mr.  Clinch. 


PROLOGUE. 

-T^ 

BY  THE  AUTHOR.       \    ! 
SPOKEN   BY   MR.   WOODWARD   AND   MR.   QUICK. 


Enter   SERJEANT-AT-LAW,    and  ATTORNEY  following 
and  giving  a  paper. 

Serj.   WHAT  's  here  !  —  a  vile  cramp  hand  !  I  can- 
not see 
Without  my  spectacles. 

Att.  He  means  his  fee. 

Nay,  Mr.  Serjeant,  good  sir,  try  again.    [Gives  money. 

Serj.    The  scrawl  improves  !  [more]  O  come,  't  is 

pretty  plain. 

Hey !  how  's  this  ?  Dibble  !  —  sure  it  cannot  be  ! 
A  poet's  brief !  a  poet  and  a  fee ! 

Aft.   Yes,  sir !  though  you  without  reward,  I  know, 
Would  gladly  plead  the  Muse's  cause. 

Serj.  So  !  —  so  ! 

Att.   And  if  the  fee  offends,  your  wrath  should  fall 
On  me. 

Serj.    Dear  Dibble,  no  offence  at  all. 

Att.    Some  sons  of  Phoebus  in  the  courts  we  meet, 

Serj.    And  fifty  sons  of  Phoebus  in  the  Fleet ! 

Att.    Nor  pleads  he  worse,  who  with  a  decent  sprig 
Of  bays  adorns  his  legal  waste  of  wig. 

3 


4  SffERIDAN'S   COMEDIES. 

Serj.    Full-bottom 'd  heroes  thus,  on  signs,  unfurl 
A  leaf  of  laurel  in  a  grove  of  curl ! 
Yet  tell  your  client  that,  in  adverse  days, 
This  wig  is  warmer  than  a  bush  of  bays. 

Att.    Do  you,  then,  sir,  my  client's  place  supply, 

Profuse  of  robe  and  prodigal  of  tie 

Do  you,  with  all  those  blushing  powers  of  face, 

And  wonted  bashful  hesitating  grace, 

Rise  in  the  court,  and  flourish  on  the  case.        \_Exit. 

Serj.    For  practice  then  suppose  —  this  brief  will 

show  it,  — 

Me,  Serjeant  Woodward,  —  counsel  for  the  poet. 
Used  to  the  ground,  I  know,  't  is  hard  to  deal 
With  this  dread  court,  from  whence  there  's  no  ap- 
peal; 

No  tricking  here,  to  blunt  the  edge  of  law, 
Or,  damned  in  equity,  escape  by  flaw : 
¥>v&  judgment  given,  your  sentence  must  remain  ; 
No  writ  of  error  lies  —  to  Drury-lane  ! 

Yet  when  so  kind  you  seem,  't  is  past  dispute 
We  gain  some  favour,  if  not  costs  of  suit. 
No  spleen  is  here  !  I  see  no  hoarded  fury ;  — 

—  I  think  I  never  faced  a  milder  jury ! 
Sad  else  our  plight !  where  frowns  are  transportation, 
A  hiss  the  gallows,  and  a  groan  damnation ! 
But  such  the  public  candour,  without  fear 
My  client  waives  all  right  of  challenge  here. 
No  newsman  from  our  session  is  dismiss'd, 
Nor  wit  nor  critic  we  scratch  off  the  list ; 
His  faults  can  never  hurt  another's  ease, 
His  crime,  at  worst,  a  bad  attempt  to  please  : 
Thus,  all  respecting,  he  appeals  to  all, 
And  by  the  general  voice  will  stand  or  fall. 


PROLOGUE. 

BY  THE  AUTHOR. 
SPOKEN  ON  THE  TENTH  NLGHT,  BY  MRS.  BULKLEY. 


GRANTED  our  cause,  our  suit  and  trial  o'er, 
The  worthy  Serjeant  need  appear  no  more  : 
In  pleasing  I  a  different  client  choose, 
He  served  the  Poet  —  I  would  serve  the  Muse : 
Like  him,  I  '11  try  to  merit  your  applause, 
A  female  counsel  in  a  female's  cause. 

Look  on  this  form  ,* — where  Humour,  quaint  and  sly, 
Dimples  the  cheek,  and  points  the  beaming  eye  ; 
Where  gay  Invention  seems  to  boast  its  wiles 
In  amorous  hint,  and  half-triumphant  smiles ; 
While  her  light  mask  or  covers  Satire's  strokes, 
Or  hides  the  conscious  blush  her  wit  provokes. 

—  Look  on  her  well  —  does  she  seem  form'd  to 

teach  ? 

Should  you  expect  to  hear  this  lady  preach  ? 
Is  gray  experience  suited  to  her  youth  ? 
Do  solemn  sentiments  become  that  mouth  ? 
Bid  her  be  grave,  those  lips  should  rebel  prove 
To  every  theme  that  slanders  mirth  or  love. 

Yet,  thus  adorn 'd  with  every  graceful  art 

To  charm  the  fancy  and  yet  reach  the  heart 

1  Pointing  to  the  figure  of  Comedy. 
5 


6  SHERIDAN'S   COMEDIES. 

Must  we  displace  her  ?     And  instead  advance 
The  Goddess  of  the  woful  countenance  — 
The  sentimental  Muse  !  —  Her  emblems  view, 
The  Pilgrim's  Progress,  and  a  sprig  of  rue ! 
View  her  —  too  chaste  to  look  like  flesh  and  blood  — 
Primly  portrayed  on  emblematic  wood  ! 
There,  fix'd  in  usurpation,  should  she  stand, 
She  '11  snatch  the  dagger  from  her  sister's  hand  : 
And  having  made  her  votaries  weep  a  flood, 
Good  heaven  !  she  '11  end  her  comedies  in  blood  — 
Bid  Harry  Woodward  break  poor  Dunstal's  crown ; 
Imprison  Quick,  and  knock  Ned  Shuter  down  ; 
While  sad  Barsanti,  weeping  o'er  the  scene, 
Shall  stab  herself  —  or  poison  Mrs.  Green.  — 

Such  dire  encroachments  to  prevent  in  time, 
Demands  the  critic's  voice  —  the  poet's  rhyme. 
Can  our  light  scenes  add  strength  to  holy  laws  ? 
.Such  puny  patronage  but  hurts  the  cause  : 

fTair  Virtue  scorns  our  feeble  aid  to  ask  ; 

j  And  moral  Truth  disdains  the  trickster's  mask. 

I  For  here  their  fav'rite  stands,1  whose  brow,  severe 
And  sad,  claims  Youth's  respect,  and  Pity's  tear; 
Who, when  oppress 'd  by  foes  her  worth  creates, 
Can  point  a  poniard  at  the  Guilt  she  hates. 

1  Pointing  to  Tragedy. 

,  -^ 


THE    RIVALS. 

A   COMEDY. 


ACT   I. 

SCENE  I.  —  A  Street  in  Bath. 

Enter  THOMAS  ;   he  crosses  the  Stage ;    FAG  follows, 
looking  after  him. 

Fag.  WHAT  !  Thomas  !  —  Sure  't  is  he  !  —  What ! 
Thomas  !  Thomas  ! 

Thos.  Hey  !  —  Odd's  life  !  Mr.  Fag  !  —  give  us 
your  hand,  my  old  fellow-servant. 

Fag.  Excuse  my  glove,  Thomas  :  —  I  'm  devilish 
glad  to  see  you,  my  lad.  Why,  my  prince  of  chariot- 
eers, you  look  as  hearty  !  —  but  who  the  deuce  thought 
of  seeing  you  in  Bath  ? 

Thos.  Sure,  master,  Madam  Julia,  Harry,  Mrs.  Kate, 
and  the  postillion,  be  all  come. 

Fag.    Indeed  ! 

Thos.  Ay,  master  thought  another  fit  of  the  gout 
was  coming  to  make  him  a  visit  j  —  so  he  'd  a  mind  to 
gi't  the  slip,  and  whip  !  we  were  all  off  at  an  hour's 
warning. 

Fag.  Ay,  ay,  hasty  in  everything,  or  it  would  not 
be  Sir  Anthony  Absolute  ! 

7 


8  SHE&TDAJV'S   COMEDIES. 

Thos.  Bu,t  tell  us>  Mr.  Fag,"  aow  does  young  master? 
Odd  1  :  Sir^rithony-wiU  stare, to  see  the  Captain  here  ! 

'  Pag.    1  do  not  serve  Captain  Absolute  now. 

Thos.   Why  sure  ! 

Fag.   At  present  I  am  employed  by  Ensign  Beverley. 

Thos.  I  doubt,  Mr.  Fag,  you  ha'n't  changed  for  the 
better. 

Fag.    I  have  not  changed,  Thomas. 

Thos.  No  !  Why,  did  n't  you  say  you  had  left 
young  master? 

Fag.  No.  —  Well,  honest  Thomas,  I  must  puzzle 
you  no  farther  :  —  briefly  then  —  Captain  Absolute  and 
Ensign  Beverley  are  one  and  the  same  person. 

Thos.    The  devil  they  are  ! 

Fag.  So  it  is  indeed,  Thomas  ;  and  the  ensign  half 
of  my  master  being  on  guard  at  present  —  the  captain 
has  nothing  to  do  with  me. 

Thos.  So,  so!  —  What,  this  is  some  freak,  I  war- 
rant !  —  Do  tell  us,  Mr.  Fag,  the  meaning  o't  —  you 
know  I  ha'  trusted  you. 

Fag.   You  '11  be  secret,  Thomas  ? 

Thos.    As  a  coach-horse. 

Fag.  Why  then  the  cause  of  all  this  is — .LOVE.  — 
Love,  Thomas,  who  (as  you  may  get  read  to  you)  has 
been  a  masquerader  ever  since  the  days  of  Jupiter. 

Thos.  Ay.  ay  ;  —  I  guessed  there  was  a  lady  in 
the  case :  —  but  pray,  why  does  your  master  pass 
only  for  ensign?  —  Now  if  he  had  shammed  general 
indeed  — 

Fag.  Ah  !  Thomas,  there  lies  the  mystery  o'  the 
matter.  Hark'ee,  Thomas,  my  master  is  in  love  with 
a  lady  of  a  very  singular  taste  ;  a  lady  who  likes  him 
better  as  a  half-pay  ensign  than  if  she  knew  he  was 
son  and  heir  to  Sir  Anthony  Absolute,  a  baronet  of 
three  thousand  a  year. 


THE  RIVALS.  9 

Thos.  That  is  an  odd  taste  indeed  !  —  But  has  she 
got  the  stuff,  Mr.  Fag?  Is  she  rich,  hey? 

Fag.  Rich  !  Why,  I  believe  she  owns  half  the 
stocks  !  Zounds  !  Thomas,  she  could  pay  the  national 
debt  as  easily  as  I  could  my  washerwoman  !  She  has 
a  lapdog  that  eats  out  of  gold,  —  she  feeds  her  parrot 
with  small  pearls,  —  and  all  her  thread-papers  are 
made  of  bank-notes  ! 

Thos.  Bravo,  faith  !  —  Odd  !  I  warrant  she  has  a 
set  of  thousands  at  least :  but  does  she  draw  kindly 
with  the  captain  ?  x 

Fag.    As  fond  as  pigeons. 

Thos.    May  one  hear  her  name  ? 

Fag.  Miss  Lydia  Languish.  —  But  there  is  an  old 
tough  aunt  in  the  way ;  —  though,  by  the  by,  she  has 
never  seen  my  master  —  for  we  got  acquainted  with 
miss  while  on  a  visit  in  Gloucestershire. 

Thos.  Well  —  I  wish  they  were  once  harnessed  to- 
gether in  matrimony.  —  But  pray,  Mr.  Fag,  what  kind 
of  a  place  is  this  Bath?  —  I  ha'  heard  a  deal  of  it  — 
here  's  a  mort  o'  merry-making,  hey  ? 

Fag.  Pretty  well,  Thomas,  pretty  well  —  't  is  a  good  « 
lounge  ;  in  the  morning  we  go  to  the  pump-room 
(though  neither  my  master  nor  I  drink  the  waters)  ; 
after  breakfast  we  saunter  on  the  parades,  or  play  a 
game  at  billiards  ;  at  night  we  dance  ;  but  damn  the 
place,  I'm  tired  of  it ;  their  regular  hours  stupefy  me  — 
not  a  fiddle  nor  a  card  after  eleven !  —  However,  Mr. 
Faulkland's  gentleman  and  I  keep  it  up  a  little  in 
private  parties  —  I'll  introduce  you  there,  Thomas  — 
you  '11  like  him  much. 

Thos.  Sure  I  know  Mr.  Du-Peigne  —  you  know  his 
master  is  to  marry  Madam  Julia. 

Fag.  I  had  forgot.  —  But,  Thomas,  you  must  polish 
a  little  —  indeed  you  must.  —  Here  now  —  this  wjg  ! 

*  rve^  VH«^  Kv^vj^  "        v*-<x 

'     \  ^  **    ,        -1 


10  SHERIDAN'S   COMEDIES. 

—  What  the  devil  do  you  do  with  a  wig,  Thomas  ? 

—  None  of  the  London  whips  of  any  degree  of  ton 
wear  wigs  now. 

Thos.  More  's  the  pity  !  more  's  the  pity,  I  say.  — 
Odd's  life  Nwhen  I  heard  how  the  lawyers  and  doc- 
tors had  took  to  their  own  hair,  I  thought  how  't  would 
go  next :  —  Odd  rabbit  it !  when  the  fashion  had  got 
foot  on  the  bar,  I  guessed  't  would  mount  to  the  box  ! 

—  but  't  is  all  out  of  character,  believe  me,  Mr.  Fag  : 
and  look'ee,  I  '11  never  gi'  up  mine  —  the  lawyers  and 
doctors  may  do  as  they  will. 

Fag.    Well,  Thomas,  we  '11  not  quarrel  about  that. 

Thos.  Why,  bless  you,  the  gentlemen  of  they  pro- 
fessions ben't  all  of  a  mind  —  for  in  our  village  now, 
thoff  Jack  Gauge,  the  exciseman  has  ta'en  to  his 
carrots,  there  's  little  Dick  the  farrier  swears  he  '11 
never  forsake  his  bob,  though  all  the  college  should 
appear  with  their  own  heads  ! 

Fag.  Indeed  !  well  said,  Dick  !  —  But  hold  !  — 
mark !  —  mark  !  Thomas. 

Thos.  Zooks  !  't  is  the  captain.  —  Is  that  the  lady 
with  him  ? 

Fag.  No,  no,  that  is  Madam  Lucy,  my  master's 
mistress's  maid.  They  lodge  at  that  house — but  I 
must  after  him  to  tell  him  the  news. 

Thos.  Odd  !  he  's  giving  her  money !  —  Well,  Mr. 
Fag 

Fag.  Good-by,  Thomas.  I  have  an  appointment 
in  Gyde's  Porch  this  evening  at  eight;  meet  me 
there,  and  we  '11  make  a  little  party. 

\Exeunt  severally. 


f 


THE  RIVALS.  II 


SCENE  II. — A  Dressing-room  in  MRS.  MALAPROP'S 

Lodgings. 

LYDIA   sitting  on  a  sofa,  with  a  book  in    her  hand. 
LUCY,  as  just  returned  from  a  message. 

Lucy.  Indeed,  ma'am,  I  traversed  half  the  town 
in  search  of  it ;  I  don't  believe  there  's  a  circulating 
library  in  Bath  I  ha'n't  been  at. 

Lyd.  And  could  not  you  get  The  Reward  of 
Constancy  ? 

Lucy.    No,  indeed,  ma'am. 

Lyd.    Nor  The  Fatal  Connection  ? 

Lucy.    No,  indeed,  ma'am. 

Lyd.    Nor  The  Mistakes  of  the  Heart  1 

Lucy.  Ma'am,  as  ill  luck  would  have  it,  Mr.  Bull 
said  Miss  Sukey  Saunter  had  just  fetched  it  away. 

Lyd.  Heigh-ho  !  —  Did  you  inquire  for  The  Deli- 
cate Distress  ? 

Lucy.  Or,  The  Memoirs  of  Lady  Woodford '?  Yes, 
indeed,  ma'am.  I  asked  everywhere  for  it ;  and  I 
might  have  brought  it  from  Mr.  Frederick's,  but 
Lady  Slattern  Lounger,  who  had  just  sent  it  home, 
had  so  soiled  and  dog's-eared  it,  it  wa'n't  fit  for  a 
Christian  to  read. 

Lyd.  Heigh-ho  !  —  Yes,  I  always  know  when  Lady 
Slattern  has  been  before  me.  She  has  a  most  ob- 
serving thumb ;  and,  I  believe,  cherishes  her  nails 
for  the  convenience  of  making  marginal  notes.  — 
Well,  child,  what  have  you  brought  me  ? 

Lucy.  Oh  1  here,  ma'am.  —  \Taking  books  from 
under  her  cloak,  and  from  her  pockets  I\  This  is  The 
Gordian  Knot,  —  and  this  Peregrine  Pickle.  Here  are 
The  Tears  of  Sensibility  and  Humphrey  Clinker.  This 
is  The  Memoirs  of  a  Lady  of  Quality,  written  by  her- 


12  SHERIDAN'S   COMEDIES. 

self,  and  here  the  second  volume  of  The  Sentimental 
Journey. 

Lyd.  Heigh-ho  !  —  What  are  those  books  by  the 
glass  ? 

-  Lucy.    The  great  one  is  only  The   Whole  Duty  of 
Man,  where  I  press  a  few  blonds,  ma'am. 

Lyd.   Very  well  —  give  me  the  sal  volatile. 

Lucy.    Is  it  in  a  blue  cover,  ma'am  ? 

Lyd.    My  smelling-bottle,  you  simpleton ! 

Lucy.    Oh,  the  drops;  —  here,  ma'am. 

Lyd.  Hold! — here's  some  one  coming  —  quick, 
see  who  it  is.  —  [Exit  LUCY.]  Surely  I  heard  my 
cousin  Julia's  voice. 

Reenter  LUCY. 

Lucy.   Lud  !  ma'am,  here  is  Miss  Melville. 

Lyd.    Is  it  possible  !  —  \_Exit  LUCY. 

Enter  JULIA. 

Lyd.  My  dearest  Julia,  how  delighted  am  I !  — 
[Embrace. ~\  How  unexpected  was  this  happiness  ! 

Jul.  True,  Lydia,  and  our  pleasure  is  the  greater. 
—  But  what  has  been  the  matter  ?  —  you  were  denied 
to  me  at  first ! 

Lyd.  Ah,  Julia,  I  have  a  thousand  things  to  tell 
you  1  —  But  first  inform  me  what  has  conjured  you 
to  Bath  ?  Is  Sir  Anthony  here  ? 

Jul.  He  is  —  we  are  arrived  within  this  hour  — 
and  I  suppose  he  will  be  here  to  wait  on  Mrs.  Mala- 
prop  as  soon  as  he  is  dressed. 

Lyd.  Then  before  we  are  interrupted,  let  me  im- 
part to  you  some  of  my  distress  !  —  I  know  your 
gentle  nature  will  sympathize  with  me,  though  your 
prudence  may  condemn  me !  My  letters  have  in- 
formed you  of  my  whole  connection  with  Beverley  ! 


THE  RIVALS.  13 

but  I  have  lost  him,  Julia !  My  aunt  has  discovered 
our  intercourse  by  a  note  she  intercepted,  and  has 
confined  me  ever  since  !  Yet,  would  you  believe  it  ? 
she  has  absolutely  fallen  in  love  with  a  tall  Irish 
baronet  she  met  one  night  since  we  have  been  here, 
at  Lady  Macshuffle's  rout. 

Jul.    You  jest,  Lydia  ! 

Lyd.  No,  upon  my  word.  She  really  carries  on  a 
kind  of  correspondence  with  him,  under  a  feigned 
name  though,  till  she  chooses  to  be  known  to  him  ;  — 
but  it  is  a  Delia  or  a  Celia,  I  assure  you. 

Jul.  Then,  surely,  she  is  now  more  indulgent  to 
her  niece. 

Lyd.  Quite  the  contrary.  Since  she  has  dis- 
covered her  own  frailty,  she  is  become  more  suspi- 
cious of  mine.  Then  I  must  inform  you  of  another 
plague  !  —  That  odious  Acres  is  to  be  in  Bath  to-day  ; 
so  that  I  protest  I  shall  be  teased  out  of  all  spirits  ! 

Jul.  Come,  come,  Lydia,  hope  for  the  best.  —  Sir 
Anthony  shall  use  his  interest  with  Mrs.  Malaprop. 

Lyd.  But  you  have  not  heard  the  worst.  Unfortu- 
nately I  had  quarrelled  with  my  poor  Beverley,  just 
before  my  aunt  made  the  discovery,  and  I  have  not 
seen  him  since,  to  make  it  up. 

Jul.    What  was  his  offence  ? 

Lyd.  Nothing  at  all !  —  But  I  don't  know  how  it 
was,  as  often  as  we  had  been  together,  we  had  never 
had  a  quarrel,  and,  somehow,  I  was  afraid  he  would 
never  give  me  an  opportunity.  So,  last  Thursday, 
I  wrote  a  letter  to  myself,  to  inform  myself  that 
Beverley  was  at  that  time  paying  his  addresses  to 
another  woman.  I  signed  it  your  friend  unknown, 
showed  it  to  Beverley,  charged  him  with  his  false- 
hood, put  myself  in  a  violent  passion,  and  vowed  I  'd 
never  see  him  more. 


14  SHERIDAN'S   COMEDIES. 

JuL  And  you  let  him  depart  so,  and  have  not  seen 
him  since  ? 

Lyd.  'T  was  the  next  day  my  aunt  found  the 
matter  out.  I  intended  only  to  have  teased  him 
three  days  and  a  half,  and  now  I  Ve  lost  him  for- 
ever. 

JuL  If  he  is  as  deserving  and  sincere  as  you  have 
represented  him  to  me,  he  will  never  give  you  up  so. 
Yet  consider,  Lydia,  you  tell  me  he  is  but  an  ensign, 
and  you  have  thirty  thousand  pounds. 
I  Lyd.  But  you  know  I  lose  most  of  my  fortune  if  I 
marry  without  my  aunt's  consent,  till  of  age ;  and 
that  is  what  I  have  determined  to  do,  ever  since  I 
knew  the  penalty.  Nor  could  I  love  the  man,  who 
would  wish  to  wait  a  day  for  the  alternative. 

////.    Nay,  this  is  caprice  ! 

Lyd.  What,  does  Julia  tax  me  with  caprice  ?  —  I 
thought  her  lover  Faulkland  had  inured  her  to  it. 

JuL    I  do  not  love  even  his  faults. 

Lyd.  But  apropos  —  you  have  sent  to  him,  I 
suppose  ? 

JuL  Not  yet,  upon  my  word  —  nor  has  he  the 
least  idea  of  my  being  in  Bath.  Sir  Anthony's  reso- 
lution was  so  sudden,  I  could  not  inform  him  of  it. 

Lyd.  Well,  Julia,  you  are  your  own  mistress 
(though  under  the  protection  of  Sir  Anthony),  yet 
have  you,  for  this  long  year,  been  a  slave  to  the 
caprice,  the  whim,  the  jealousy  of  this  ungrateful 
Faulkland,  who  will  ever  delay  assuming  the  right 
of  a  husband,  while  you  suffer  him  to  be  equally 
imperious  as  a  lover. 

JuL  Nay,  you  are  wrong  entirely.  We  were  con- 
tracted before  my  father's  death.  That,  and  some 
consequent  embarrassments,  have  delayed  what  I 
know  to  be  my  Faulkland's  most  ardent  wish.  He 


THE  RIVALS.  15 

is  too  generous  to  trifle  on  such  a  point :  —  and  for 
his  character,  you  wrong  him  there  too.  No,  Lydia, 
he  is  too  proud,  too  noble,  to  be  jealous  ;  if  he  is  cap- 
tious, 't  is  without  dissembling ;  if  fretful,  without 
rudeness.  Unused  to  the  fopperies  of  love,  he  is 
negligent  of  the  little  duties  expected  from  a  lover 
—  but  being  unhackneyed  in  the  passion,  his  affec- 
tion is  ardent  and  sincere  ;  and  as  it  engrosses  his 
whole  soul,  he  expects  every  thought  and  emotion 
of  his  mistress  to  move  in  unison  with  his.  Yet, 
though  his  pride  calls  for  this  full  return,  his  humil- 
ity makes  him  undervalue  those  qualities  in  him 
which  would  entitle  him  to  it ;  and  not  feeling  w7hy 
he  should  be  loved  to  the  degree  he  wishes,  he  still 
suspects  that  he  is  not  loved  enough.  This  temper, 
I  must  own,  has  cost  me  many  unhappy  hours ;  but 
I  have  learned  to  think  myself  his  debtor  for  those 
imperfections  which  arise  from  the  ardour  of  his 
attachment. 

Lyd.  Well,  I  cannot  blame  you  for  defending  him. 
But  tell  me  candidly,  Julia,  had  he  never  saved  your 
life,  do  you  think  you  should  have  been  attached  to 
him  as  you  are  ?  —  Believe  me,  the  rude  blast  that 
overset  your  boat  was  a  prosperous  gale  of  love  to 
him. 

JuL  Gratitude  may  have  strengthened  my  attach- 
ment to  Mr.  Faulkland,  but  I  loved  him  before  he 
had  preserved  me ;  yet  surely  that  alone  were  an 
obligation  sufficient. 

Lyd.  Obligation  !  why  a  water-spaniel  would  have 
done  as  much  !  —  Well,  I  should  never  think  of  giv- 
ing my  heart  to  a  man  because  he  could  swim. 

JuL    Come,  Lydia,  you  are  too  inconsiderate. 

Lyd.   Nay,  I  do  but  jest.  —  What 's  here  ? 


1 6  SHERIDAWS   COMEDIES. 

Reenter  LUCY  in  a  hurry. 

Lucy.  O  ma'am,  here  is  Sir  Anthony  Absolute 
just  come  home  with  your  aunt. 

Lyd.  They  '11  not  come  here.  —  Lucy,  do  you 
watch.  [Exit  LUCY. 

////.  Yet  I  must  go.  Sir  Anthony  does  not  know 
I  am  here,  and  if  we  meet,  he  '11  detain  me,  to  show 
me  the  town.  I  '11  take  another  opportunity  of  pay- 
ing my  respects  to  Mrs.  Malaprop,  when  she  shall 
treat  me,  as  long  as  she  chooses,  with  her  select 
words  so  ingeniously  misapplied,  without  being  mis- 
pronounced. 

Reenter  LUCY. 

Lucy.  O  Lud !  ma'am,  they  are  both  coming  up- 
stairs. 

Lyd.  Well,  I  '11  not  detain  you,  coz.  —  Adieu,  my 
dear  Julia,  I  'm  sure  you  are  in  haste  to  send  to 
Faulkland.  —  There  —  through  my  room  you  '11  find 
another  staircase. 

////.    Adieu  !  [Embraces  LYDIA,  and  exit. 

Lyd.  Here,  my  dear  Lucy,  hide  these  books. 
Quick,  quick.  —  Fling  Peregrine  Pickle  under  the 
toilet  —  throw  Roderick  Random  into  the  closet  — 
put  The  Innocent  Adultery  into  The  Whole  Duty  of 
Man  —  thrust  Lord  Aimworth  under  the  sofa  —  cram 
Ovid  behind  the  bolster  —  there  —  put  the  Man  of 
Feeling  into  your  pocket  —  so,  so; — now  lay  Mrs. 
Chapone  in  sight,  and  leave  Fordyce's  Sermons  open 
on  the  table. 

Lucy.  Oh,  burn  it,  ma'am !  the  hair-dresser  has 
torn  away  as  far  as  Proper  Pride. 

Lyd.  Never  mind  —  open  at  Sobriety.  —  Fling  me 
Lord  Chesterfield^s  Letters.  —  Now  for  'em. 

[Exit  LUCY. 


THE  RIVALS.  I/ 

Enter  MRS.  MALAPROP  and  Sir  ANTHONY  ABSOLUTE. 

Mrs.  Mai.  There,  Sir  Anthony,  there  sits  the  de- 
liberate simpleton  who  wants  to  disgrace  her  family, 
and  lavish  herself  on  a  fellow  not  worth  a  shilling. 

Lyd.    Madam,  I  thought  you  once 

Mrs.  Mai.  You  thought,  miss  !  I  don't  know  any 
business  you  have  to  think  at  all  —  thought  does  not 
become  a  young  woman.  But  the  point  we  would 
request  of  you  is,  that  you  will  promise  to  forget  this 
fellow  —  to  illiterate  him,  I  say,  quite  from  your 
memory. 

Lyd.  Ah,  madam  !  our  memories  are  independent 
of  our  wills.  It  is  not  so  easy  to  forget. 

Mrs.  Mai.  But  I  say  it  is,  miss  ;  there  is  nothing 
on  earth  so  easy  as  to  forget,  if  a  person  chooses  to 
set  about  it.  I  'm  sure  I  have  as  much  forgot  your 
poor  dear  uncle  as  if  he  had  never  existed  —  and  I 
thought  it  my  duty  so  to  do ;  and  let  me  tell  you, 
Lydia,  these  violent  memories  don't  become  a  young 
woman. 

Sir  Anth.  Why  sure  she  won't  pretend  to  remem- 
ber what  she  's  ordered  not !  —  ay,  this  comes  of  her 
reading ! 

Lyd.  What  crime,  madam,  have  I  committed,  to 
be  treated  thus  ? 

Mrs.  Mai.  Now  don't  attempt  to  extirpate  your- 
self from  the  matter ;  you  know  I  have  proof  con- 
trovertible  of  it.  —  But  tell  me,  Will  you  promise  to 
do  as  you  're  bid  ?  Will  you  take  a  husband  of  your 
friends'  choosing  ? 

Lyd.  Madam,  I  must  tell  you  plainly,  that  had  I 
no  preference  for  any  one  else,  the  choice  you  have 
made  would  be  my  aversion. 

Mrs.  Mai.    What   business  have  you,  miss,  with 


1 8  SHERIDAN'S   COMEDIES. 

preference  and  aversion !  They  don't  become  a 
young  woman ;  and  you  ought  to  know,  that  as  both 
always  wear  off,  't  is  safest  in  matrimony  to  begin 
with  a  little  aversion.  I  am  sure  I  hated  your  poor 
dear  uncle  before  marriage  as  if  he  'd  been  a  blacka- 
moor—  and  yet,  miss,  you  are  sensible  what  a  wife 
I  made !  —  and  when  it  pleased  Heaven  to  release 
me  from  him,  't  is  unknown  what  tears  I  shed  !  —  But 
suppose  we  were  going  to  give  you  another  choice, 
will  you  promise  us  to  give  up  this  Beverley  ? 

Lyd.  Could  I  belie  my  thoughts  so  far  as  to  give 
that  promise,  my  actions  would  certainly  as  far  belie 
my  words. 

Mrs.  Mai.  Take  yourself  to  your  room.  —  You 
are  fit  company  for  nothing  but  your  own  ill-humours. 

Lyd.  Willingly,  ma'am.  —  I  cannot  change  for  the 
worse.  {Exit. 

Mrs.  Mai.  There  's  a  little  intricate  hussy  for  you  ! 

Sir  Anth.  It  is  not  to  be  wondered  at,  ma'am,  — 
all  this  is  the  natural  consequence  of  teaching  girls 
to  read.  Had  I  a  thousand  daughters,  by  Heaven  ! 
I'd  as  soon  have  them  taught  the  black  art  as  their 
alphabet ! 

Mrs.  Mai.  Nay,  nay,  Sir  Anthony,  you  are  an 
absolute  misanthropy. 

Sir  Anth.  In  my  way  hither,  Mrs.  Malaprop,  I 
observed  your  niece's  maid  coming  forth  from  a  cir- 
culating library  !  —  She  had  a  book  in  each  hand  — 
they  were  half-bound  volumes,  with  marble  covers  ! — 
from  that  moment  I  guessed  how  full  of  duty  I  should 
see  her  mistress  ! 

Mrs.  Mai.  Those  are  vile  places,  indeed ! 

Sir  Anth.  Madam,  a  circulating  library  in  a  town 
is  as  an  evergreen  tree  of  diabolical  knowledge  !  It 
blossoms  through  the  year!  —  and  depend  on  it, 


THE  RIVALS.  19 

Mrs.  Malaprop,  that  they  who  are  so  fond  of  han- 
dling the  leaves  will  long  for  the  fruit  at  last. 

Mrs.  Mai.  Fy,  fy,  Sir  Anthony !  you  surely  speak 
laconically. 

Sir.  Anth.  Why,  Mrs.  Malaprop,  in  moderation, 
now,  what  would  you  have  a  woman  know  ? 

Mrs. 'Mai.  Observe  me,  Sir  Anthony,  I  would  by 
no  means  wish  a  daughter  of  mine  to  be  a  progeny 
of  learning  ;  I  don't  think  so  much  learning  becomes 
a  young  woman  ;  for  instance,  I  would  never  let  her 
meddle  with  Greek,  or  Hebrew,  or  Algebra,  or  Sim- 
ony, or  Fluxions,  or  Paradoxes,  or  such  inflamma- 
tory branches  of  learning  —  neither  would  it  be 
necessary  for  her  to  handle  any  of  your  mathemati- 
cal, astronomical,  diabolical  instruments.  —  But,  Sir 
Anthony,  I  would  send  her,  at  nine  years  old,  to  a 
boarding-school,  in  order  to  learn  a  little  ingenuity 
and  artifice.  Then,  sir,  she  should  have  a  supercili- 
ous knowledge  in  accounts  ;  —  and  as  she  grew  up,  I 
would  have  her  instructed  in  geometry,  that  she 
might  know  something  of  the  contagious  coun- 
tries;—  but  above  all,  Sir  Anthony,  she  should  be 
mistress  of  orthodoxy,  that  she  might  not  misspell, 
and  mispronounce  words  so  shamefully  as  girls 
usually  do  ;  and  likewise  that  she  might  reprehend 
the  true  meaning  of  what  she  is  saying.  This,  Sir 
Anthony,  is  what  I  would  have  a  woman  know ;  — 
and  I  don't  think  there  is  a  superstitious  article  in  it. 

Sir  Anth.  Well,  well,  Mrs.  Malaprop,  I  will  dis- 
pute the  point  no  further  with  you  ;  though  I  must 
confess  that  you  are  a  truly  moderate  and  polite 
arguer,  for  almost  every  third  word  you  say  is  on  my 
side  of  the  question.  But,  Mrs.  Malaprop,  to  the 
more  important  point  in  debate  —  you  say  you  have 
no  objection  to  my  proposal  ? 


2O  SHERIDAN'S   COMEDIES. 

Mrs.  Mai.  None,  I  assure  you.  I  am  under  no 
positive  engagement  with  Mr.  Acres,  and  as  Lydia 
is  so  obstinate  against  him,  perhaps  your  son  may 
have  better  success. 

Sir  Anth.  Well,  madam,  I  will  write  for  the  boy 
directly.  He  knows  not  a  syllable  of  this  yet,  though 
I  have  for  some  time  had  the  proposal  in  my  head. 
He  is  at  present  with  his  regiment. 

Mrs.  Mai.  We  have  never  seen  your  son,  Sir 
Anthony ;  but  I  hope  no  objection  on  his  side. 

Sir  Anth.  Objection  !  —  let  him  object  if  he 
dare !  —  No,  no,  Mrs.  Malaprop,  Jack  knows  that 
the  least  demur  puts  me  in  a  frenzy  directly.  My 
process  was  always  very  simple  —  in  their  younger 
days  'twas  "Jack,  do  this;"  —  if  he  demurred,  I 
knocked  him  down  —  and  if  he  grumbled  at  that,  I 
always  sent  him  out  of  the  room. 

Mrs.  Mai.  Ay,  and  the  properest  way,  o'  my  con- 
science !  —  nothing  is  so  conciliating  to  young  people 
as  severity.  —  Well,  Sir  Anthony,  L  shall  give  Mr. 
Acres  his  discharge,  and  prepare  Lydia  to  receive 
your  son's  invocations  ;  —  and  I  hope  you  will  pre- 
sent her  to  the  captain  as  an  object  not  altogether 
illegible. 

Sir  Anth.  Madam,  I  will  handle  the  subject  pru- 
dently.—  Well,  I  must  leave  you;  and  let  me  beg 
you,  Mrs.  Malaprop,  to  enforce  this  matter  roundly 
to  the  girl.  —  Take  my  advice  —  keep  a  tight  hand  : 
if  she  rejects  this  proposal,  clap  her  under  lock  and 
key ;  and  if  you  were  just  to  let  the  servants  forget 
to  bring  her  dinner  for  three  or  four  days,  you  can't 
conceive  how  she  'd  come  about.  [Exit  SIR  ANTH. 

Mrs.  Mai.  Well,  at  any  rate  I  shall  be  glad  to  get 
her  from  under  my  intuition.  She  has  somehow 
discovered  my  partiality  for  Sir  Lucius  O 'Trigger  — 


THE  RIVALS.  21 

sure,  Lucy  can't  have  betrayed  me!  —  No,  the  girl 
is  such  a  simpleton,  I  should  have  made  her  confess 
it.  —  Lucy  !  —  Lucy  !  —  \Calls I\  Had  she  been  one 
of  your  artificial  ones,  I  should  never  have  trusted 
her. 

Reenter  LUCY. 

Lucy.    Did  you  call,  ma'am  ? 

Mrs.  Mai.  Yes,  girl.  —  Did  you  see  Sir  Lucius 
while  you  was  out  ? 

Lucy.    No,  indeed,  ma'am,  not  a  glimpse  of  him. 

Mrs.  Mai.  You  are  sure,  Lucy,  that  you  never 
mentioned 

Lucy.    Oh  Gemini !  I  'd  sooner  cut  my  tongue  out. 

Mrs.  Mai.  Well,  don't  let  your  simplicity  be 
imposed  on. 

Lucy.    No,  ma'am. 

Mrs.  Mai.  So,  come  to  me  presently,  and  I  '11 
give  you  another  letter  to  Sir  Lucius ;  but  mind, 
Lucy,  —  if  ever  you  betray  what  you  are  entrusted 
with  (unless  it  be  other  people's  secrets  to  me),  you 
forfeit  'my  malevolence  forever  ;  and  your  being  a 
simpleton  shall  be  no  excuse  for  your  locality. 

\Exit  MRS.  MALti 

Lucy.  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  —  So,  my  dear  Simplicity! 
let  me  give  you  a  little  respite.  —  ^Altering  her  man- 
ner,,]  Let  girls  in  my  station  be  as  fond  as  they 
please  of  appearing  expert,  and  knowing  in  their 
trusts  ;  commend  me  to  a  mask  of  silliness  and  a  • 
pair  of  sharp  eyes  for  my  own  interest  under  it !  — 
Let  me  see  to  what  account  have  I  turned  my  simplic- 
ity lately.  —  [Looks  at  a  paperl\  For  abetting  Miss 
Lydia  Languish  in  a  design  of  running  away  with  an 
ensign !  —  in  money,  sundry  times,  twelve  pounds 
twelve;  gowns,  Jive;  hats,  ruffles,  caps,  &*c.  &>£., 


22  SHERIDAN'S   COMEDIES. 

numberless  ! — From  the  said  ensign,  within  this  last 
month,  six  guineas  and  a  half,  —  about  a  quarter's 
pay  !  —  Item,  from  Mrs.  Malaprop  for  betraying  the 
young  people  to  her — when  I  found  matters  were 
.  likely  to  be  discovered  —  two  guineas,  and  a  black 
padusoy.  —  I  tern,  from  Mr.  Acres,  for  carrying  divers 
letters  —  which  I  never  delivered  —  two  guineas,  and 
a  pair  of  buckles.  —  Item,  from  Sir.  Lucius  O' Trigger, 
three  crowns,  two  gold  pocket-pieces,  and  a  silver  snuff- 
box ! —  Well  done,  Simplicity!  —  Yet  I  was  forced 
to  make  my  Hibernian  believe  that  he  was  corre- 
sponding, not  with  the  aunt,  but  with  the  niece :  for 
though  not  over  rich,  I  found  he  had  too  much  pride 
and  delicacy  to  sacrifice  the  feelings  of  a  gentleman 
to  the  necessities  of  his  fortune.  [Exit. 


THE  RIVALS.  23 


ACT    II. 

SCENE  I.  —  CAPTAIN  ABSOLUTE'S  Lodgings. 
CAPTAIN  ABSOLUTE  and  FAG. 

Fag.  Sir,  while  I  was  there  Sir  Anthony  came  in  : 
I  told  him,  you  had  sent  me  to  inquire  after  his 
health,  and  to  know  if  he  was  at  leisure  to  see  you. 

Abs.  And  what  did  he  say,  on  hearing  that  I  was 
at  Bath  ? 

Fag.  Sir,  in  my  life  I  never  saw  an  elderly  gentle- 
man more  astonished  !  He  started  back  two  or  three 
paces,  rapped  out  a  dozen  interjectural  oaths,  and 
asked  what  the  devil  had  brought  you  here. 

Abs.   Well,  sir,  and  what  did  you  say  ? 

Fag.  Oh,  I  lied,  sir  —  I  forget  the  precise  lie; 
but  you  may  depend  on  't,  he  got  no  truth  from  me. 
Yet,  with  submission,  for  fear  of  blunders  in  future, 
I  should  be  glad  to  fix  what  has  brought  us  to  Bath  ; 
in  order  that  we  may  lie  a  little  consistently.  Sir 
Anthony's  servants  were  curious,  sir,  very  curious 
indeed. 

Abs.   You  have  said  nothing  to  them ? 

Fag.  Oh,  not  a  word,  sir,  —  not  a  word !  Mr. 
Thomas,  indeed,  the  coachman  (whom  I  take  to  be 
the  discreetest  of  whips) 

Abs.  'Sdeath  !  —  you  rascal !  you  have  not  trusted 
him ! 

Fag.  Oh,  no,  sir  —  no  —  no  —  not  a  syllable,  upon 
my  veracity !  —  he  was,  indeed,  a  little  inquisitive ; 


24  SHERIDAN'S   COMEDIES. 

but  I  was  sly,  sir  —  devilish  sly  !  My  master  (said 
I),  honest  Thomas,  (you  know,  sir,  one  says  honest  to 
one's  inferiors,)  is  come  to  Bath  to  recruit — yes,  sir, 
I  said  to  recruit — and  whether  for  men,  money,  or 
constitution,  you  know,  sir,  is  nothing  to  him,  nor 
anyone  else.  , 

Abs.    Well,  recruit  will  do  —  let  it  be  so. 

Fag.  Oh,  sir,  recruit  will  do  surprisingly  —  indeed, 
to  give  the  thing  an  air,  I  told  Thomas,  that  your  hon- 
our had  already  enlisted  five  disbanded  chairmen, 
seven  minority  waiters,  and  thirteen  billiard-markers. 

Abs.  You  blockhead,  never  say  more  than  is 
necessary. 

Fag.  I  beg  pardon,  sir  —  I  beg  pardon  —  but, 
with  submission,  a  lie  is  nothing  unless  one  supports 
it.  Sir,  whenever  I  draw  on  my  invention  for  a  good 
current  lie,  I  always  forge  indorsements  as  well  as 
the  bill. 

Abs.  Well,  take  care  you  don't  hurt  your  credit, 
by  offering  too  much  security.  —  Is  Mr.  Faulkland 
returned  ? 

Fag.    He  is  above,  sir,  changing  his  dress. 

Abs.  Can  you  tell  whether  he  has  been  informed 
of  Sir  Anthony's  and  Miss  Melville's  arrival  ? 

Fag.  I  fancy  not,  sir ;  he  has  seen  no  one  since 
he  came  in  but  his  gentleman,  who  was  with  him  at 
Bristol.  —  I  think,  sir,  I  hear  Mr.  Faulkland  coming 
down 

Abs.    Go  tell  him  I  am  here. 

Fag.  Yes,  sir.  —  \GoingI\  I  beg  pardon,  sir,  but 
should  Sir  Anthony  call,  you  will  do  me  the  favour  to 
remember  that  we  are  recruiting,  if  you  please. 

Abs.   Well,  well. 

Fag.  And,  in  tenderness  to  my  character,  if  your 
honour  could  bring  in  the  chairmen  and  waiters,  I 


THE  RIVALS.  2$ 

should  esteem  it  as  an  obligation  ;  for  though  I  never 
scruple  to  lie  to  serve  my  master,  yet  it  hurts  one's 
conscience  to  be  found  out.  \JExit. 

Abs.  Now  for  my  whimsical  friend  —  if  he  does 
not  know  that  his  mistress  is  here,  I  '11  tease  him  a 
little  before  I  tell  him  — 

Enter  FAULKLAND. 

Faulkland,  you  're  welcome  to  Bath  again  ;  you  are 
punctual  in  your  return. 

Faulk.  Yes  ;  I  had  nothing  to  detain  me,  when  I 
had  finished  the  business  I  went  on.  Well,  what 
news  since  I  left  you?  How  stand  matters  between 
you  and  Lydia? 

Abs.  Faith,  much  as  they  were ;  I  have  not  seen 
her  since  our  quarrel ;  however,  I  expect  to  be  re- 
called every  hour. 

Faulk.  Why  don't  you  persuade  her  to  go  off  with 
you  at  once  ? 

Abs.  What,  and  lose  two-thirds  of  her  fortune  ? 
you  forget  that,  my  friend.  —  No,  no,  I  could  have 
brought  her  to  that  long  ago. 

Faulk.  Nay  then,  you  trifle  too  long — if  you  are 
sure  of  her,  propose  to  the  aunt  in  your  own  charac- 
ter, and  write  to  Sir  Anthony  for  his  consent. 

Abs.  Softly,  softly  ;  for  though  I  am  convinced  my 
little  Lydia  would  elope  with  me  as  Ensign  Beverley, 
yet  I  am  by  no  means  certain  that  she  would  take 
me  with  the  impediment  of  our  friends'  consent,  a 
regular  humdrum  wedding,  and  the  reversion  of  a 
good  fortune  on  my  side:  no,  no;  I  must  prepare 
her  gradually  for  the  discovery,  and  make  myself 
necessary  to  her,  before  I  risk  it.  —  Well,  but  Faulk- 
land, you  '11  dine  with  us  to-day  at  the  hotel  ? 


26  SHERIDAN'S   COMEDIES. 

Faulk.  Indeed  I  cannot ;  I  am  not  in  spirits  to  be 
of  such  a  party. 

Abs.  By  heavens  I  I  shall  forswear  your  company. 
You  are  the  most  teasing,  captious,  incorrigible 
lover  !  —  Do  love  like  a  man. 

Faulk.    I  own  I  am  unfit  for  company.  , 

Abs.  Am  not  /  a  lover ;  ay,  and  a  romantic  one, 
too?  Yet  do  I  carry  everywhere  with  me  such  a 
confounded  farrago  of  doubts,  fears,  hopes,  wishes, 
and  all  the  flimsy  furniture  of  a  country  miss's  brain! 

Faulk.  Ah !  Jack,  your  heart  and  soul  are  not, 
like  mine,  fixed  immutably  on  one  only  object.  You 
throw  for  a  large  stake,  but  losing,  you  could  stake 
and  throw  again  :  —  but  I  have  set  my  sum  of  happi- 
ness on  this  cast,  and  not  to  succeed  were  to  be 
stripped  of  all. 

Abs.  But,  for  Heaven's  sake !  what  grounds  for 
apprehension  can  your  whimsical  brain  conjure  up 
at  present? 

Faulk.  What  grounds  for  apprehension,  did  you 
say  ?  Heavens  !  are  there  not  a  thousand  !  I  fear 
for  her  spirits  —  her  health  —  her  life.  —  My  absence 
may  fret  her ;  her  anxiety  for  my  return,  her  fears 
for  me,  may  oppress  her  gentle  temper :  and  for  her 
health,  does  not  every  hour  bring  me  cause  to  be 
alarmed  ?  If  it  rains,  some  shower  may  even  then 
have  chilled  her  delicate  frame !  If  the  wind  be 
keen,  some  rude  blast  may  have  affected  her !  The 
heat  of  noon,  the  dews  of  the  evening,  may  endanger 
the  life  of  her,  for  whom  only  I  value  mine.  O 
Jack !  when  delicate  and  feeling  souls  are  separated, 
there  is  not  a  feature  in  the  sky,  not  a  movement  of 
the  elements,  not  an  aspiration  of  the  breeze,  but 
hints  some  cause  for  a  lover's  apprehension  ! 

Abs.    Ay,  but  we  may  choose  whether  we  will  take 


THE  RIVALS.  2/ 

the  hint  or  not.  —  So,  then,  Faulkland,  if  you  were 
convinced  that  Julia  were  well  and  in  spirits,  you 
would  be  entirely  content  ? 

Faulk.  I  should  be  happy  beyond  measure  —  I 
am  anxious  only  for  that. 

Abs.  Then  to  cure  your  anxiety  at  once  —  Miss 
Melville  is  in  perfect  health,  and  is  at  this  moment 
in  Bath. 

Faulk.    Nay,  Jack — don't  trifle  with  me. 

Abs.  She  is  arrived  here  with  rny  father  within 
this  hour. 

Faulk.   Can  you  be  serious  ? 

Abs.  I  thought  you  knew  Sir  Anthony  better  than 
to  be  surprised  at  a  sudden  whim  of  this  kind.  — 
Seriously,  then,  it  is  as  I  tell  you  —  upon  my  honour. 

Faulk.  My  dear  friend  !  —  Hollo,  Du  Peigne  !  my 
hat.  —  My  dear  Jack  —  now  nothing  on  earth  can 
give  me  a  moment's  uneasiness. 

Retnter  FAG. 

Fag.    Sir,  Mr.  Acres,  just  arrived,  is  below. 

Abs.  Stay,  Faulkland,  this  Acres  lives  within  a 
mile  of  Sir  Anthony,  and  he  shall  tell  you  how  your 
mistress  has  been  ever  since  you  left  her.  —  Fag, 
show  the  gentleman  up.  \Exit  FAG. 

Faulk.  What,  is  he  much  acquainted  in  the 
family? 

Abs.  Oh,  very  intimate :  I  insist  on  your  not  go- 
ing :  besides,  his  character  will  divert  you. 

Faulk.  Well,  I  should  like  to  ask  him  a  few  ques- 
tions. 

Abs.  He  is  likewise  a  rival  of  mine  —  that  is,  of 
my  other  selfs,  for  he  does  not  think  his  friend  Cap- 
tain Absolute  ever  saw  the  lady  in  question;  and 
it  is  ridiculous  enough  to  hear  him  complain  to 


28  SHERIDAWS   COMEDIES. 

me    of    one   Beverley,    a   concealed   skulking   rival, 

who 

Faulk.    Hush  !  —  he  's  here. 

Enter  ACRES. 

Acres.  Ha !  my  dear  friend,  noble  captain,  and 
honest  Jack,  how  do'st  thou  ?  just  arrived,  faith,  as 
you  see.  —  Sir,  your  humble  servant.  —  Warm  work 
on  the  roads,  Jack  !  —  Odds  whips  and  wheels  ! 
I  've  travelled  like  a  comet,  with  a  tail  of  dust  all  the 
way  as  long  as  the  Mall. 

Abs.  Ah  !  Bob,  you  are  indeed  an  eccentric  planet, 
but  we  know  your  attraction  hither.  —  Give  me  leave 
to  introduce  Mr.  Faulkland  to  you ;  Mr.  Faulkland, 
Mr.  Acres. 

Acres.  Sir,  I  am  most  heartily  glad  to  see  you : 
sir,  I  solicit  your  connections.  —  Hey,  Jack  —  what, 
this  is  Mr.  Faulkland,  who 

Abs.   Ay,  Bob,  Miss  Melville's  Mr.  Faulkland. 

Acres.  Od'so  !  she  and  your  father  can  be  but  just 
arrived  before  me  :  —  I  suppose  you  have  seen  them. 
Ah !  Mr.  Faulkland,  you  are  indeed  a  happy 
man. 

Faulk.  I  have  not  seen  Miss  Melville  yet,  sir ;  — 
I  hope  she  enjoyed  full  health  and  spirits  in  Devon- 
shire ? 

Acres.  Never  knew  her  better  in  my  life,  sir,  — 
never  better.  Odds  blushes  and  blooms  !  she  has 
been  as  healthy  as  the  German  Spa. 

Faulk.  Indeed  !  —  I  did  hear  that  she  had  been  a 
little  indisposed. 

Acres.  False,  false,  sir  —  only  said  to  vex  you  : 
quite  the  reverse,  I  assure  you. 

Faulk.  There, -Jack,  you  see  she  has  the  advan- 
tage of  me ;  I  had  almost  fretted  myself  ill. 


THE  RIVALS.  29 

Abs.  Now  are  you  angry  with  your  mistress  for 
not  having  been  sick? 

Faulk.  No,  no,  you  misunderstand  me  :  yet  surely 
.a  little  trifling  indisposition  is  not  an  unnatural  con- 
sequence of  absence  from  those  we  love.  —  Now 
confess  —  is  n't  there  something  unkind  in  this  vio- 
lent, robust,  unfeeling  health  ? 

Abs.  Oh,  it  was  very  unkind  of  her  to  be  well  in 
your  absence,  to  be  sure  ! 

Acres.    Good  apartments,  Jack. 

Faulk.  Well,  sir,  but  you  were  saying  that  Miss 
Melville  has  been  so  exceedingly  well  —  what  then, 
she  has  been  merry  and  gay,  I  suppose?  —  Always 
in  spirits  —  hey  ? 

Acres.  Merry,  odds  crickets !  she  has  been  the 
belle  and  spirit  of  the  company  wherever  she  has 
been  —  so  lively  and  entertaining  !  so  full  of  wit  and 
humour ! 

Faulk.  There,  Jack,  there.  —  Oh,  by  my  soul! 
there  is  an  innate  levity  in  woman,  that  nothing  can 
overcome.  —  What !  happy,  and  I  away  ! 

Abs.  Have  done  !  —  How  foolish  this  isT  just  now 
you  were  only  apprehensive  for  your  mistress's  spirits. 

Faulk.  Why,  Jack,  have  I  been  the  joy  and  spirit 
of  the  company  ? 

Abs.    No  indeed,  you  have  not. 

Faulk.    Have  I  been  lively  and  entertaining  ? 

Abs.    Oh,  upon  my  word,  I  acquit  you. 

Faulk.    Have  I  been  full  of  wit  and  humour  ? 

Abs.  No,  faith,  to  do  you  justice,  you  have  been 
confoundedly  stupid  indeed. 

Acres.    What 's  the  matter  with  the  gentleman  ? 

Abs.  He  is  only  expressing  his  great  satisfaction 
at  hearing  that  Julia  has  been  so  well  and  happy  — 
that 's  all  —  hey,  Faulkland  ? 


3O  SHERIDAN'S   COMEDIES. 

Faulk.  Oh!  I  am  rejoiced  to  hear  it  —  yes,  yes, 
she  has  a  happy  disposition  ! 

Acres.  That  she  has  indeed  —  then  she  is  so  ac- 
complished —  so  sweet  a  voice  —  so  expert  p,t  her 
harpsichord  —  such  a  mistress  of  flat  and  sharp, 
squallante,  rumblante,  and  quiverante  !  —  There  was 
this  time  month  —  Odds  minims  and  crotchets  !  how 
she  did  chirrup  at  Mrs.  Piano's  concert ! 

Faulk.  There  again,  what  say  you  to  this  ?  you  see 
she  has  been  all  mirth  and  song  —  not  a  thought  of 
me ! 

Abs.    Pho  !  man,  is  not  music  the  food  of  love  ? 

Faulk.   Well,  well,  it  may  be  so.  —  Pray,  Mr. , 

what 's  his  damned  name  ?  —  Do  you  remember  what 
songs  Miss  Melville  sung  ? 

Acres.    Not  I  indeed. 

Abs.  Stay,  now,  they  were  some  pretty  melancholy 
pur  ling-stream  airs,  I  warrant ;  perhaps  you  may 
recollect ;  —  did  she  sing,  When  absent  from  my  soul's 
delight  ? 

Acres.    No,  that  wa'n't  it. 

Abs.    Or,  Go,  gentle  gales  !  —  Go,  gentle  gales  ! 

[Sings. 

Acres.  Oh,  no  !  nothing  like  it.  Odds  !  now  I  recol- 
lect one  of  them  —  My  heart 's  my  own,  my  will  is 
free.  [Sings. 

Faulk.  Fool !  fool  that  I  am  !  to  fix  all  my  happi- 
ness on  such  a  trifler  !  'Sdeath  !  to  make  herself  the 
pipe  and  ballad-monger  of  a  circle !  to  soothe  her 
light  heart  with  catches  and  glees  !  —  What  can  you 
say  to  this,  sir  ? 

Abs.  Why,  that  I  should  be  glad  to  hear  my  mis- 
tress had  been  so  merry,  sir. 

Faulk.  Nay,  nay,  nay  —  I  'm  not  sorry  that  she 
has  been  happy  —  no,  no,  I  am  glad  of  that  —  I 


THE  RIVALS.  31 

would  not  have  had  her  sad  or  sick  —  yet  surely  a 
sympathetic  heart  would  have  shown  itself  even  in 
the  choice  of  a  song  —  she  might  have  been  temper- 
ately healthy,  and  somehow,  plaintively  gay ;  —  but 
she  has  been  dancing  too,  I  doubt  not ! 

Acres.  What  does  the  gentleman  say  about  danc- 
ing? 

Abs.  He  says  the  lady  we  speak  of  dances  as  well 
as  she  sings. 

Acres.  Ay,  truly,  does  she  —  there  was  at  our  last 
race  ball 

Faulk.  Hell  and  the  devil !  There  !  there — I  told 
you  so  !  I  told  you  so !  Oh  !  she  thrives  in  my  absence ! 

—  Dancing !  but  her  wjiole   feelings  have  been   in 
opposition  with  mine  ;  -^Xhave  been  anxious,  silent, 
pensive,  sedentary,?—  my  days  have  been  hours  of 
care,  my  nights^ef  watchfulness. —  She  has  been  all 
health  !  spirit !  laugh  !  song  !  dance  !  — Oh  !  damned, 
damned  levity ! 

Abs.  For  Heaven's  sake,  Faulkland,  don't  expose 
yourself  so  !  —  Suppose  she  has  danced,  what  then  ? 

—  does  not  the  ceremony  of  society  often  oblige 

Faulk.   Well,  well,  I  '11  contain  myself  —  perhaps 

as  you  say  —  for  form  sake.  —  What,  Mr.  Acres,  you 
were  praising  Miss  Melville's  manner  of  dancing  a 
minuet — hey  ? 

Acres.  Oh,  I  dare  insure  her  for  that  —  but  what 
I  was  going  to  speak  of  was  her  country- dancing. 
Odds  swimmings  !  she  has  such  an  air  with  her ! 

Faulk.  Now  disappointment  on  her  !  —  Defend 
this,  Absolute  ;  why  don't  you  defend  this  ? —  Coun- 
try-dances !  jigs  and  reels  !  am  I  to  blame  now  ?  A 
minuet  I  could  have  forgiven  —  I  should  not  have 
minded  that  —  I  say  I  should  not  have  regarded  a 
minuet  —  but  country-dances  !  —  Zounds  !  had  she 


32  SHERIDAN'S   COMEDIES. 

made  one  in   a  cotillion  —  I  believe   I  could  have 

(forgiven  even  that  —  but  to  be  monkey-led  for  a 
night !  —  to  run  the  gauntlet  through  a  string  of 
amorous  palming  puppies !  —  to  show  paces  like  a 
managed  filly  !  —  Oh,  Jack,  there  never  ca'n  be  but 
one  man  in  the  world  whom  a  truly  modest  and  deli- 
cate woman  ought  to  pair  with  in  a  country-dance  ; 
and,  even  then,  the  rest  of  the  couples  should  be  her 
great-uncles  and  aunts ! 

Abs.  Ay,  to  be  sure  !  —  grandfathers  and  grand- 
mothers ! 

Faulk.  If  there  be  but  one  vicious  mind  in  the 
set  'twill  spread  like  a  contagion  —  the  action  of 
their  pulse  beats  to  the  lascivious  movement  of  the 
jig  —  their  quivering,  warm-breathed  sighs  impreg- 
nate the  very  air  —  the  atmosphere  becomes  electri- 
cal to  love,  and  each  amorous  spark  darts  through 
every  link  of  the  chain  !  —  I  must  leave  you  —  I 
own  I  am  somewhat  flurried —  and  that  confounded 
looby  has  perceived  it.  [Going. 

Abs.  Nay,  but  stay,  Faulkland,  and  thank  Mr.  Acres 
for  his  good  news. 

Faulk.    Damn  his  news!  \Exit. 

Abs.  Ha  !  ha  I  ha !  poor  Faulkland,  five  minutes 
,  since  —  "  nothing  on  earth  could  give  him  a  moment's 
uneasiness !  " 

Acres.  The  gentleman  wa'n't  angry  at  my  prais- 
ing his  mistress,  was  he  ? 

Abs.    A  little  jealous,  I  believe,  Bob. 

Acres.  You  don't  say  so  ?  Ha,  ha  !  jealous  of  me 
—  that 's  a  good  joke. 

Abs.  There  's  nothing  strange  in  that,  Bob ;  let 
me  tell  you,  that  sprightly  grace  and  insinuating 
manner  of  yours  will  do  some  mischief  among  the 
girls  here. 


THE  RIVALS.  33 

Acres.  Ah  !  you  joke  —  ha  !  ha  !  mischief  !  —  ha  ! 
ha  !  but  you  know  I  am  not  my  own  property,  my  dear 
Lydia  has  forestalled  me.  She  could  never  abide  me 
in  the  country,  because  I  used  to  dress  so  badly  —  but 
odds  frogs  and  tambours!  I  shan't  take  matters  so 
here,  now  ancient  madam  has  no  voice  in  it :  I  '11  make 
my  old  clothes  know  who  's  master.  I  shall  straight- 
way cashier  the  hunting-frock,  and  render  my  leather 
breeches  incapable.  My  hair  has  been  in  training 
some  time. 

Abs.    Indeed  ! 

Acres.  Ay  —  and  thoff  the  side  curls  are  a  little 
restive,  my  hind-part  takes  it  very  kindly. 

Abs.    Oh,  you  '11  polish,  I  doubt  not. 

Acres.  Absolutely  I  propose  so  —  then  if  I 
can  find  out  this  Ensign  Beverley,  odds  triggers 
and  flints  !  I  '11  make  him  know  the  difference 
o't. 

Abs.  Spoke  like  a  man  !  But  pray,  Bob,  I  observe 
you  have  got  an  odd  kind  of  a  new  method  of  swear- 
ing  

Acres.  Ha  !  ha  !  you  've  taken  notice  of  it  —  't  is 
genteel  is  n't  it  ? —  I  did  n't  invent  it  myself  though  ; 
but  a  commander  in  our  militia,  a  great  scholar,  I 
assure  you,  says  that  there  is  no  meaning  in  the 
common  oaths,  and  that  nothing  but  their  antiquity 
makes  them  respectable  ;  —  because,  he  says,  the 
ancients  would  never  stick  to  an  oath  or  two,  but 
would  say,  by  Jove  !  or  by  Bacchus  !  or  by  Mars  ! 
or  by  Venus !  or  by  Pallas  !  according  to  the  senti- 
ment :  so  that  to  swear  with  propriety,  says  my  lit- 
tle major,  the  oath  should  be  an  echo  to  the  sense  ; 
and  this  we  call  the  oath  referential  or  sentimental 
swearing —  ha  !  ha  !  't  is  genteel,  is  n't  it  ? 

Abs.    Very  genteel,  and  very  new,  indeed  !  —  and 


34  SHERIDAN'S   COMEDIES. 

I  dare  say  will  supplant  all  other  figures  of  impre- 
cation. 

Acres.  Ay,  ay,  the  best  terms  will  grow  obsolete.  — 
Damns  have  had  their  day. 

-  Reenter  FAG. 

Fag.  Sir,  there  is  a  gentleman  below  desires  to 
see  you.  —  Shall  I  show  him  into  the  parlour  ? 

Abs.    Ay  —  you  may. 

Acres.   Well,  I  must  be  gone 

Abs.    Stay  ;  who  is  it,  Fag  ? 

Fag.    Your  father,  sir. 

Abs.  You  puppy,  why  did  n't  you  show  him  up 
directly  ?  [Exit  FAG. 

Acres.  You  have  business  with  Sir  Anthony.  —  I 
expect  a  message  from  Mrs.  Malaprop  at  my  lodg- 
ings. I  have  sent  also  to  my  dear  friend  Sir  Lucius 
O 'Trigger.  Adieu,  Jack !  we  must  meet  at  night, 
when  you  shall  give  me  a  dozen  bumpers  to  little 
Lydia. 

Abs.  That  I  will  with  all  my  heart.  —  \Exit 
ACRES.]  Now  for  a  parental  lecture  —  I  hope  he 
has  heard  nothing  of  the  business  that  has  brought 
me  here  —  I  wish  the  gout  had  held  him  fast  in 
Devonshire,  with  all  my  soul ! 

Enter  SIR  ANTHONY  ABSOLUTE. 

Sir,  I  am  delighted  to  see  you  here  :  looking  so  well ! 
your  sudden  arrival  at  Bath  made  me  apprehensive 
for  your  health. 

Sir  Anth.  Very  apprehensive,  I  dare  say,  Jack.  — 
What,  you  are  recruiting  here,  hey  ? 

Abs.    Yes,  sir,  I  am  on  duty. 

Sir  Anth.  Well,  Jack,  I  am  glad  to  see  you,  though 
I  did  not  expect  it,  for  I  was  going  to  write  you  on 


THE  RIVALS.  35 

a  little  matter  of  business.  —  Jack,  I  have  been  con- 
sidering that  I  grow  old  and  infirm,  and  shall  prob- 
ably not  trouble  you  long. 

Abs.  Pardon  me,  sir,  I  never  saw  you  look  more 
strong  and  hearty ;  and  I  pray  frequently  that  you 
may  continue  so. 

Sir  Anth.  I  hope  your  prayers  may  be  heard,  with 
all  my  heart.  Well  then,  Jack,  I  have  been  consider- 
ing that  I  am  so  strong  and  hearty  I  may  continue 
to  plague  you  a  long  time.  —  Now,  Jack,  I  am  sen- 
sible that  the  income  of  your  commission,  and  what 
I  have  hitherto  allowed  you,  is  but  a  small  pittance  for 
a  lad  of  your  spirit. 

Abs.    Sir,  you  are  very  good. 

Sir  AntJi.  And  it  is  my  wish,  while  yet  I  live,  to 
have  my  boy  make  some  figure  in  the  world.  I 
have  resolved,  therefore,  to  fix  you  at  once  in  a 
noble  independence. 

Abs.  Sir,  your  kindness  overpowers  me  —  such 
generosity  makes  the  gratitude  of  reason  more  lively 
than  the  sensations  even  of  filial  affection. 

Sir  Anth.  I  am  glad  you  are  so  sensible  of  my 
attention  —  and  you  shall  be  master  of  a  large  estate 
in  a  few  weeks. 

Abs.  Let  my  future  life,  sir,  speak  my  gratitude ; 
I  cannot  express  the  sense  I  have  of  your  munifi- 
cence.—  Yet,  sir,  I  presume  you  would  not  wish  me 
to  quit  the  army  ? 

Sir  Anth.    Oh,  that  shall  be  as  your  wife  chooses. 

Abs.    My  wife,  sir  ! 

Sir  Anth.  Ay,  ay,  settle  that  between  you  —  settle 
that  between  you. 

Abs.    A  wife,  sir,  did  you  say  ? 

Sir  Anth.  Ay,  a  wife  —  why,  did  not  I  mention 
her  before  ? 


36  SHERIDAN'S   COMEDIES. 

Abs.    Not  a  word  of  her,  sir. 

Sir  Anth.  Odd  so  !  —  I  must  n't  forget  her  though. 
-Yes,  Jack,  the  independence  I  was  talking  of  is 
by  marriage  —  the  fortune  is  saddled  with  a  wife  — 
but  I  suppose  that  makes  no  difference. 

Abs.    Sir  !  sir  !  —  you  amaze  me  ! 

Sir  Anth.  Why,  what  the  devil  's  the  matter  with 
the  fool  ?  Just  now  you  were  all  gratitude  and  duty. 

Abs.  I  was,  sir,  —  you  talked  to  me  of  indepen- 
dence and  a  fortune,  but  not  a  word  of  a  wife. 

Sir  Anth.  Why —  what  difference  does  that  make  ? 
Odds  life,  sir !  if  you  have  the  estate,  you  must  take 
it  with  the  live-stock  on  it,  as  it  stands. 

Abs.  If  my  happiness  is  to  be  the  price,  I  must 
beg  leave  to  decline  the  purchase.  —  Pray,  sir,  who 
is  the  lady  ? 

Sir  Anth.  What 's  that  to  you,  sir  ?  Come,  give 
me  your  promise  to  love,  and  to  marry  her  directly. 

Abs.  Sure,  sir,  this  is  not  very  reasonable  to 
summon  my  affections  for  a  lady  I  know  nothing 
of! 

Sir  Anth.  I  am  sure,  sir,  't  is  more  unreasonable 
in  you  to  object  to  a  lady  you  know  nothing  of. 

Abs.  Then,  sir,  I  must  tell  you  plainly  that  my  in- 
clinations are  fixed  dn  another  —  my  heart  is  engaged 
to  an  angel. 

Sir  Anth.  Then  pray  let  it  send  an  excuse.  It  is 
very  sorry  —  but  business  prevents  its  waiting  on  her. 

Abs.    But  my  vows  are  pledged  to  her. 

Sir  Anth.  Let  her  foreclose,  Jack ;  let  her  fore- 
close ;  they  are  not  worth  redeeming ;  besides,  you 
have  the  angel's  vows  in  exchange,  I  suppose ;  so 
there  can  be  no  loss  there. 

Abs.  You  must  excuse  me,  sir,  if  I  tell  you,  once 
for  all,  that  in  this  point  I  cannot  obey  you. 


THE  RIVALS.  37 

Sir  Anth.  Hark'ee,  Jack  ;  — I  have  heard  you  for 
some  time  with  patience  —  I  have  been  cool  —  quite 
cool ;  but  take  care  —  you  know  I  am  compliance 
itself  —  when  I  am  not  thwarted;  —  no  one  more 
easily  led  —  when  I  have  my  own  way;  —  but  don't 
put  me  in  a  frenzy. 

Abs.  Sir,  I  must  repeat  it  —  in  this  I  cannot  obey 
you. 

Sir  Anth.  Now  damn  me  I  if  ever  I  call  you  Jack 
again  while  I  live ! 

Abs.    Nay,  sir,  but  hear  me. 

Sir  Anth.  Sir,  I  won't  hear  a  word  —  not  a  word  ! 
not  one  word  !  so  give  me  your  promise  by  a  nod  — 
and  I  '11  tell  you  what,  Jack  —  I  mean,  you  dog — if 
you  don't,  by 

Abs.  What,  sir,  promise  to  link  myself  to  some 
mass  of  ugliness  !  to 

Sir  Anth.  Zounds !  sirrah  !  the  lady  shall  be  as 
ugly  as  I  choose :  she  shall  have  a  hump  on  each 
shoulder !  she  shall  be  as  crooked  as  the  Crescent ; 
her  one  eye  shall  roll  like  the  bull's  in  Cox's  Museum ; 
she  shall  have  a  skin  like  a  mummy,  and  the  beard 
of  a  Jew  —  she  shall  be  all  this,  sirrah  !  —  yet  I  will 
make  you  ogle  her  all  day,  and  sit  up  all  night  to 
write  sonnets  on  her  beauty. 

Abs.    This  is  reason  and  moderation  indeed ! 

Sir  Anth.  None  of  your  sneering,  puppy  !  no  grin- 
ning, jackanapes ! 

Abs.  Indeed,  sir,  I  never  was  in  a  worse  humour 
for  mirth  in  my  life. 

Sir  Anth.  'T  is  false,  sir,  I  know  you  are  laughing 
in  your  sleeve  ;  I  know  you  '11  grin  when  I  am  gone, 
sirrah  ! 

Abs.    Sir,  I  hope  I  know  my  duty  better. 

Sir  Anth.    None  of  your  passion,  sir  !  none  of  your 


38  SHERIDAN'S   COMEDIES. 

violence,  if  you  please !  —  It  won't  do  with  me,  I 
promise  you. 

Abs.    Indeed,  sir,  I  never  was  cooler  in  my  life. 
/    Sir  Anth.    'T  is  a  confounded  lie  !  —  I  know  you 
are  in  a  passion  in  your  heart ;  I  know  you  are,  you 
hypocritical  young  dog !  but  it  won't  do. 

Abs.    Nay,  sir,  upon  my  word  — 

Sir  Anth.  So  you  will  fly  out !  can't  you  be  cool 
like  me  ?  What  the  devil  good  can  passion  do  ?  — 
Passion  is  of  no  service,  you  impudent,  insolent,  over- 
bearing reprobate  !  —  There,  you  sneer  again  !  — 
don't  provoke  me  !  —  but  you  rely  upon  the  mildness 
of  my  temper  —  you  do,  you  dog  !  you  play  upon  the 
meekness  of  my  disposition  !  —  Yet  take  care  —  the 
patience  of  a  saint  may  be  overcome  at  last! — but 
mark !  I  give  you  six  hours  and  a  half  to  consider  of 
this :  if  you  then  agree,  without  any  condition,  to  do 
everything  on  earth  that  I  choose,  why  —  confound 
you !  I  may  in  time  forgive  you.  —  If  not,  zounds  ! 
don't  enter  the  same  hemisphere  with  me  !  don't  dare 
to  breathe  the  same  air  or  use  the  same  light  with 
me ;  but  get  an  atmosphere  and  sun  of  your  own ! 
I  '11  strip  you  of  your  commission  ;  I  '11  lodge  a  five- 
and-threepence  in  the  hands  of  trustees,  and  you  shall 
live  on  the  interest.  —  I  '11  disown  you,  I  '11  disinherit 
you,  I  '11  unget  you  !  and  damn  me  !  if  ever  I  call  you 
Jack  again  !  \_Exit  Sir  Anth. 

Abs.  Mild,  gentle,  considerate  father  —  I  kiss  your 
hands  !  —  What  a  tender  method  of  giving  his  opinion 
in  these  matters  Sir  Anthony  has  !  I  dare  not  trust 
him  with  the  truth.  —  I  wonder  what  old  wealthy  hag 
it  is  that  he  wants  to  bestow  on  me  !  —  Yet  he  mar- 
ried himself  for  love !  and  was  in  his  youth  a  bold 
intriguer,  and  a  gay  companion  ! 


THE  RIVALS.  39 

Reenter  FAG. 

Fag.  Assuredly,  sir,  your  father  is  wrath  to  a  de- 
gree ;  he  comes  down-stairs  eight  or  ten  steps  at  a 
time  —  muttering,  growling,  and  thumping  the  ban- 
isters all  the  way :  I  and  the  cook's  dog  stand  bow- 
ing at  the  door  —  rap !  he  gives  me  a  stroke  on  the 
head  with  his  cane  ;  bids  me  carry  that  to  my  master  ; 
then  kicking  the  poor  turnspit  into  the  area,  damns 
us  all,  for  a  puppy  triumvirate  !  —  Upon  my  credit, 
sir,  were  I  in  your  place,  and  found  my  father  such 
very  bad  company,  I  should  certainly  drop  his  ac- 
quaintance. 

Abs.  Cease  your  impertinence,  sir,  at  present.  — 
Did  you  come  in  for  nothing  more  ?  —  Stand  out  of 
the  way.  [Pushes  him  aside,  and  exit. 

Fag.  Soh!  Sir  Anthony  trims  my  master:  he  is 
afraid  to  reply  to  his  father  —  then  vents  his  spleen  on 
poor  Fag  !  —  When  one  is  vexed  by  one  person,  to  re- 
venge one's  self  on  another,  who  happens  to  come  in 
the  way,  is  the  vilest  injustice !  Ah !  it  shows  the 
worst  temper  —  the  basest  — 

Enter  ERRAND  BOY. 

Boy.    Mr.  Fag !  Mr.  Fag !  your  master  calls  you. 

Fag.  Well,  you  little  dirty  puppy,  you  need  not 
bawl  so  !  —  The  meanest  disposition  !  the 

Boy.    Quick,  quick,  Mr.  Fag ! 

Fag.  Quick!  quick!  you  impudent  jackanapes! 
am  I  to  be  commanded  by  you  too  ?  you  little  imper- 
tinent, insolent,  kitchen-bred 

\_Exit,  kicking  and  beating  him. 


4O  SHERIDAN'S   COMEDIES. 

SCENE  II.  —  The  North  Parade. 

Enter  LUCY. 

• 

Lucy.  So  —  I  shall  have  another  rival  to  add  to 
my  mistress's  list — Captain  Absolute.  However,  I 
shall  not  enter  his  name  till  my  purse  has  received 
notice  in  form.  Poor  Acres  is  dismissed  !  —  Well,  I 
have  done  him  a  last  friendly  office,  in  letting  him 
know  that  Beverley  was  here  before  him.  —  Sir 
Lucius  is  generally  more  punctual,  when  he  expects 
to  hear  from  his  dear  Dalia,  as  he  calls  her  :  I  won- 
der he  's  not  here  !  —  I  have  a  little  scruple  of  con- 
science from  this  deceit ;  though  I  should  not  be 
paid  so  well,  if  my  hero  knew  that  Delia  was  near 
fifty,  and  her  own  mistress. 

Enter  SIR  Lucius  O'TRIGGER. 

Sir  Lite.  Ha  !  my  little  ambassadress  —  upon  my 
conscience,  I  have  been  looking  for  you  ;  I  have  been 
on  the  South  Parade  this  half  hour. 

Lucy.  \Speaking  simply '.]  O  Gemini !  and  I  have 
been  waiting  for  your  worship  here  on  the  North. 

Sir  Luc.  Faith  !  —  may  be  that  was  the  reason  we 
did  not  meet ;  and  it 's  very  comical  too,  how  you 
could  go  out  and  I  not  see  you  —  for  I  was  only  tak- 
ing a  nap  at  the  Parade  Coffee-house,  and  I  chose 
the  window  on  purpose  that  I  might  not  miss  you. 

Lucy.  My  stars  !  Now  I  'd  wager  a  sixpence  I 
went  by  while  you  were  asleep. 

Sir  Luc.  Sure  enough  it  must  have  been  so  — 
and  I  never  dreamt  it  was  so  late,  till  I  waked. 
Well,  but  my  little  girl,  have  you  got  nothing  for 
me? 


THE   RIVALS.  41 

Lucy.  Yes,  but  I  have  — I  've  got  a  letter  for  you 
in  my  pocket. 

Sir  Luc.  O  faith !  I  guessed  you  were  n't  come 
empty-handed  —  well  —  let  me  see  what  the  dear 
creature  says. 

Lucy.     There,  Sir  Lucius.  \Gives  him  a  letter. 

Sir  Luc.  [Reads.]  Sir — there  is  of  ten  a .  sudden 
incentive  impulse  in  love,  that  has  a  greater  induction 
than  years  of  domestic  combination  :  such  was  the  com- 
motion I  felt  at  the  first  superfluous  view  of  Sir  Lucius 
O^  Trigger. — Very  pretty,  upon  my  word.  —  Female 
punctuation  forbids  me  to  say  more,  yet  let  me  add,  that 
it  will  give  me  joy  infallible  to  find  Sir  Lucius  worthy 
the  last  criterion  of  my  affections.  -p. 

Upon  my  conscience  !  Lucy,  your  lady  is  a  great 
mistress  of  language.  Faith,  she's  quite  the  queen 
of  the  dictionary  !  —  for  the  devil  a  word  dare  refuse 
coming  to  her  call  —  though  one  would  think  it  was 
quite  out  of  hearing. 

Lucy.     Ay,  sir,  a  lady  of  her  experience 

Sir  Luc.     Experience  ?  what,  at  seventeen  ? 

Lucy.  O  true,  sir  —  but  then  she  reads  so  —  my 
stars  !  how  she  will  read  offhand  ! 

Sir  Luc.  Faith,  she  must  be  very  deep  read  to 
write  this  way  —  though  she  is  rather  an  arbitrary 
writer  too  —  for  here  are  a  great  many  poor  words 
pressed  into  the  service  of  this  note  that  would  get 
their  habeas  corpus  from  any  court  in  Christendom. 

Lucy.  Ah !  Sir  Lucius,  if  you  were  to  hear  how 
she  talks  of  you  ! 

Sir  Luc.  Oh,  tell  her  I  '11  make  her  the  best  hus- 
band in  the  word,  and  Lady  O 'Trigger  into  the  bar- 
gain ! —  But  we  must  get  the  old  gentlewoman's 
consent —  and  do  everything  fairly. 


42  SHERIDAN'S   COMEDIES. 

Lucy.  Nay,  Sir  Lucius,  I  thought  you  wa'n't  rich 
enough  to  be  so  nice ! 

Sir  Luc.  Upon  my  word,  young  woman,  you  have 
hit  it:  —  I  am  so  poor,  that  I  can't  afford  to  do  a 
dirty  action.  —  If  I  did  not  want  money,  I  'd  steal 
your  mistress  and  her  fortune  with  a  great  deal  of 
pleasure.  —  However,  my  pretty  girl,  \Gives  her 
money]  here  's  a  little  something  to  buy  you  a  ribbon  ; 
and  meet  me  in  the  evening,  and  I  '11  give  you  an 
answer  to  this.  So,  hussy,  take  a  kiss  beforehand  to 
put  you  in  mind.  [Kisses  her. 

Lucy.  O  Lud  !  Sir  Lucius  —  I  never  seed  such  a 
gemman.  My  lady  won't  like  you  if  you  're  so  impu- 
dent. 

Sir  Luc.  Faith  she  will,  Lucy  !  —  That  same  — 
pho  !  what 's  the  name  of  it  ?  —  modesty  —  is  a  quality 
in  a  lover  more  praised  by  the  women  than  liked ; 
so,  if  your  mistress  asks  you  whether  Sir  Lucius  ever 
gave  you  a  kiss,  tell  her  fifty —  my  dear. 

Lucy.     What,  would  you  have  me  tell  her  a  lie  ? 

Sir  Luc.  Ah,  then,  you  baggage  !  I  '11  make  it  a 
truth  presently. 

Lucy.     For  shame  now  !  here  is  some  one  coming. 

Sir  Luc.     Oh,  faith,  I  '11  quiet  your  conscience  ! 

[Sees  FAG.  —  Exit,  humming  a  tune. 

Enter  FAG. 

Fag.     So,  so,  ma'am  !     I  humbly  beg  pardon. 

Lucy.     O  Lud  !  now  Mr.  Fag —  you  flurry  one  so. 

Fag.  Come,  come,  Lucy,  here  's  no  one  by  —  so  a 
little  less  simplicity,  with  a  grain  or  two  more  sincer- 
ity, if  you  please.  — You  play  false  with  us,  madam. 
—  I  saw  you  give  the  baronet  a  letter.  —  My  master 
shall  know  this  —  and  if  he  don't  call  him  out,  I 
will. 


THE  RIVALS.  43 

Lticy.  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  you  gentlemen's  gentlemen 
are  so  hasty.  — That  letter  was  from  Mrs.  Malaprop, 
simpleton.  —  She  is  taken  with  Sir  Lucius's  address. 

Fag.  How !  what  tastes  some  people  have !  — 
Why,  I  suppose  I  have  walked  by  her  window  a  hun- 
dred times.  —  But  what  says  our  young  lady  ?  any 
message  to  my  master  ? 

Lucy.  Sad  news,  Mr.  Fag.  —  A  worse  rival  than 
Acres !  Sir  Anthony  Absolute  has  proposed  his 
son. 

Fag.     What,  Captain  Absolute  ? 

Lucy.     Even  so  —  I  overheard  it  all. 

Fag.  Ha !  ha !  ha  !  very  good,  faith.  .  Good-by, 
Lucy,  I  must  away  with  this  news. 

Lucy.  Well,  you  may  laugh  —  but  it  is  true,  I  as- 
sure you.  —  [  Going.']  But,  Mr.  Fag,  tell  your  master 
not  to  be  cast  down  by  this. 

Fag.     Oh,  he  '11  be  so  disconsolate  ! 

Lucy.  And  charge  him  not  to  think  of  quarrelling 
with  young  Absolute. 

Fag.     Never  fear  !  never  fear  ! 

Lucy.     Be  sure  —  bid  him  keep  up  his  spirits. 

Fag.     We  will  —  we  will.  [Exeunt  severally. 


44  SHERIDAN'S   COMEDIES. 


ACT   III. 

SCENE  I.  —  The  North  Parade. 
Enter  CAPTAIN  ABSOLUTE. 

Abs.  JTis  just  as  Fag  told  me,  indeed.  Whim- 
sical enough;  faith  !  My  father  wants  to  force  me  to 
marry  the  very  girl  I  am  plotting  to  run  away  with  ! 
He  must  not  know  of  my  connection  with  her  yet 
awhile.  He  has  too  summary  a  method  of  proceed- 
ing in  these  matters.  However,  I  '11  read  my  recan- 
tation instantly.  My  conversion  is  something  sudden, 
indeed  —  but  I  can  assure  him  it  is  very  sincere. 
So,  so  —  here  he  comes.  He  looks  plaguy  gruff. 

\_Steps  aside. 

Enter  SIR  ANTHONY  ABSOLUTE. 

Sir  Anth.  No  —  I  '11  die  sooner  than  forgive 
him.  Die,  did  I  say  ?  I  '11  live  these  fifty  years  to 
plague  him.  At  our  last  meeting,  his  impudence 
had  almost  put  me  out  of  temper.  An  obstinate, 
passionate,  self-willed  boy  !  Who  can  he  take  after  ? 
This  is  my  return  for  getting  him  before  all  his 
brothers  and  sisters!  —  for  putting  him,  at  twelve 
years  old,  into  a  marching  regiment,  and  allowing 
him  fifty  pounds  a  year,  besides  his  pay,  ever  since  ! 
But  I  have  done  with  him  ;  he  's  anybody's  son  for 
me.  I  never  will  see  him  more,  never  —  never  — 
never. 


THE  RIVALS.  45 

Abs.  [Aside,  coming  forward.}  Now  for  a  peni- 
tential face. 

Sir  Anth.    Fellow,  get  out  of  my  way  ! 

Abs.    Sir,  you  see  a  penitent  before  you. 

Sir  Anth.  I  see  an  impudent  scoundrel  before  me. 

Abs.  A  sincere  penitent.  I  am  come,  sir,  to  ac- 
knowledge my  error,  and  to  submit  entirely  to  your  will. 

Sir  Anth.    What 's  that  ? 

Abs.  I  have  been  revolving,  and  reflecting,  and 
considering  on  your  past  goodness,  and  kindness, 
and  condescension  to  me. 

Sir  Anth.    Well,  sir  ? 

Abs.  I  have  been  likewise  weighing  and  balanc- 
ing what  you  were  pleased  to  mention  concerning 
duty,  and  obedience,  and  authority. 

Sir  Anth.    Well,  puppy  ? 

Abs.  Why  then,  sir,  the  result  of  my  reflections 
is — a  resolution  to  sacrifice  every  inclination  of  my 
own  to  your  satisfaction. 

Sir  Anth.  Why  now  you  talk  sense — absolute 
sense  —  I  never  heard  anything  more  sensible  in  my 
life.  Confound  you  !  you  shall  be  Jack  again. 

Abs.    I  am  happy  in  the  appellation. 

Sir  Anth.  Why  then  Jack,  my  dear  Jack,  I  will 
now  inform  you  who  the  lady  really  is.  Nothing 
but  your  passion  and  violence,  you  silly  fellow,  pre- 
vented my  telling  you  at  first.  Prepare,  Jack,  for 
wonder  and  rapture  —  prepare.  What  think  you  of 
Miss  Lydia  Languish  ? 

Abs.  Languish  !  What,  the  Languishes  of  Worces- 
tershire ? 

Sir  Anth.  Worcestershire  !  no.  Did  you  never 
meet  Mrs.  Malaprop  and  her  niece,  Miss  Languish, 
who  came  into  our  country  just  before  you  were  last 
ordered  to  your  regiment  ? 


46  SHERIDAN'S   COMEDIES. 

Abs.  Malaprop !  Languish!  I  don't  remember 
ever  to  have  heard  the  names  before.  Yet,  stay  — 
I  think  I  do  recollect  something.  Languish  !  Lan- 
guish !  She  squints,  don't  she  ?  A  little  red-haired 
girl? 

Sir  Anth.  Squints  !  A  red-haired  girl !  Zounds  [ 
no. 

Abs.  Then  I  must  have  forgot ;  it  can't  be  the 
same  person. 

Sir  Anth.  Jack  !  Jack  !  what  think  you  of  bloom- 
ing, love-breathing  seventeen  ? 

Abs.  As  to  that,  sir,  I  am  quite  indifferent.  If  I 
can  please  you  in  the  matter,  't  is  all  I  desire. 

Sir  Anth.  Nay,  but  Jack,  such  eyes  !  such  eyes  ! 
so  innocently  wild  !  so  bashfully  irresolute  !  not  a 
glance  but  speaks  and  kindles  some  thought  of  love  ! 
Then,  Jack,  her  cheeks  !  her  cheeks,  Jack !  so  deeply 
blushing  at  the  insinuations  of  her  tell-tale  eyes  ! 
Then,  Jack,  her  lips  !  O  Jack,  lips  smiling  at  their 
own  discretion  ;  and  if  not  smiling,  more  sweetly 
pouting  ;  more  lovely  in  sullenness  ! 

Abs.  That 's  she  indeed.  Well  done,  old  gentle- 
man. [Aside. 

Sir  Anth.    Then,  Jack,  her  neck  !     O  Jack  !  Jack! 

Abs.  And  which  is  to  be  mine,  sir,  the  niece  or 
the  aunt  ? 

Sir  Anth.  Why,  you  unfeeling,  insensible  puppy, 
I  despise  you !  When  I  was  of  your  age,  such  a 
description  would  have  made  me  fly  like  a  rocket ! 
The  aunt,  indeed  !  Odds  life !  when  I  ran  away 
with  your  mother,  I  would  not  have  touched  any- 
thing old  or  ugly  to  gain  an  empire. 

Abs.    Not  to  please  your  father,  sir? 

Sir  Anth.  To  please  my  father !  zounds !  not  to 
please  —  O,  my  father  —  odd  so  !  —  yes  —  yes  ;  if 


THE  RIVALS.  47 

my  father  indeed  had  desired  —  that 's  quite  another 
matter.  Though  he  wa'n't  the  indulgent  father  that 
I  am,  Jack. 

Abs.    I  dare  say  not,  sir. 

Sir  Anth.  But,  Jack,  you  are  not  sorry  to  find 
your  mistress  is  so  beautiful  ? 

Abs.  Sir,  I  repeat  it — if  I  please  you  in  this 
affair,  't  is  all  I  desire.  Not  that  I  think  a  woman 
the  worse  for  being  handsome  ;  but,  sir,  if  you 
please  to  recollect,  you  before  hinted  something 
about  a  hump  or  two,  one  eye,  and  a  few  more  graces 
of  that  kind  —  now,  without  being  very  nice,  I  own 
I  should  rather  choose  a  wife  of  mine  to  have  the 
usual  number  of  limbs,  and  a  limited  quantity  of 
back :  and  though  one  eye  may  be  very  agreeable, 
yet  as  the  prejudice  has  always  run  in  favour  of  two, 
I  would  not  wish  to  affect  -a  singularity  in  that 
article. 

Sir  Anth.  What  a  phlegmatic  sot  it  is !  Why, 
sirrah,  you  're  an  anchorite  !  —  a  vile,  insensible 
stock.  You  a  soldier  !  —  you  're  a  walking  block, 
fit  only  to  dust  the  company's  regimentals  on ! 
Odds  life  !  I  have  a  great  mind  to  marry  the  girl 
myself. 

Abs.  I  am  entirely  at  your  disposal,  sir  :  if  you 
should  think  of  addressing  Miss  Languish  yourself, 
I  suppose  you  would  have  me  marry  the  aunt ;  or  if 
you  should  change  your  mind  and  take  the  old  lady 

—  't  is  the  same  to  me  —  I  '11  marry  the  niece. 

Sir  Anth.  Upon  my  word,  Jack,  thou  'rt  either  a 
very  great  hypocrite,  or  —  but  come,  I  know  your 
indifference  on  such  a  subject  must  be  all  a  lie  —  I  'm 
sure  it  must  —  come,  now  —  damn  your  demure 
face  !  —  come,  confess,  Jack  —  you  have  been  lying 

—  ha'n't  you  ?     You  have  been  playing  the  hypocrite, 


48  SHERIDAN'S   COMEDIES. 

hey !  —  I  '11  never  forgive  you,  if  you  ha'n't  been  ly- 
ing and  playing  the  hypocrite. 

Abs.  I  'in  sorry,  sir,  that  the  respect  and  duty 
which  I  bear  to  you  should  be  so  mistaken. 

Sir  Anth.  Hang  your  respect  and  duty !  But 
come  along  with  me,  I  '11  write  a  note  to  Mrs.  Mala- 
prop,  and  you  shall  visit  the  lady  directly.  Her 
eyes  shall  be  the  Promethean  torch  to  you  —  come 
along,  I  '11  never  forgive  you,  if  you  don't  come  back 
stark  mad  with  rapture  and  impatience  —  if  you 
don't,  egad,  I  will  marry  the  girl  myself!  \Exeunt. 


SCENE  II.  —  JULIA'S  Dressing-room. 
FAULKLAND  discovered  alone. 

Faulk.  They  told  me  Julia  would  return  directly ; 
I  wonder  she  is  not  yet  come  !  How  mean  does  this 
captious,  unsatisfied  temper  of  mine  appear  to  my 
cooler  judgment !  Yet  I  know  not  that  I  indulge  it 
in  any  other  point ;  but  on  this  one  subjectr  anrL-to 
.this  one  subject,  whom  I  think  I  love  beyond  my 
life,  I  am  ever  ungenerously  fretful  and  madly  capri- 
cious !  I  am  conscious  of  it  —  yet  I  cannot  correct 
myself !  What  tender,  honest  joy  sparkled  in  her 
eyes  when  we  met!  how  delicate  was  the  warmth 
of  her  expressions  !  I  was  ashamed  to  appear  less 
happy  —  though  I  had  come  resolved  to  wear  a  face 
of  coolness  and  upbraiding.  Sir  Anthony's  presence 
prevented  my  proposed  expostulations  :  yet  I  must 
be  satisfied  that  she  has  not  been  so  very  happy  in 
my  absence.  She  is  coming !  Yes  !  —  I  know  the 
nimbleness  of  her  tread,  when  she  thinks  her  impa- 
tient Faulkland  counts  the  moments  of  her  stay. 


THE  RIVALS.  49 

Enter  JULIA. 

Jul.   I  had  not  hoped  to  see  you  again  so  soon. 

Faulk.  Could  I,  Julia,  be  contented  with  my  first 
welcome  —  restrained  as  we  were  by  the  presence  of 
a  third  person  ? 

Jul.  O  Faulkland,  when  your  kindness  can  make 
me  thus  happy,  let  me  not  think  that  I  discovered 
something  of  coldness  in  your  first  salutation. 

Faulk.  'T  was  but  your  fancy,  Julia.  I  was  re- 
joiced to  see  you  —  to  see  you  in  such  health.  Sure 
I  had  no  cause  for  coldness  ? 

Jul.  Nay,  then,  I  see  you  have  taken  something 
ill.  You  must  not  conceal  from  me  what  it  is. 

Faulk.  Well,  then,  shall  I  own  to  you  that  my  joy 
at  hearing  of  your  health  an,d  arrival  here,  by  your 
neighbour  Acres,  was  somewhat  damped  by  his  dwell- 
ing much  on  the  high  spirits  you  had  enjoyed  in 
Devonshire  —  on  your  mirth  —  your  singing  —  danc- 
ing, and  I  know  not  what  ?  For  such  is  my  temper, 
Julia,  that  I  should  regard  every  mirthful  moment 
in  your  absence  as  a  treason  to  constancy.  The 
mutual  tear  that  steals  down  the  cheek  of  parting 
lovers  is  a  compact  that  no  smile  shall  live  there  till 
they  meet  again. 

Jul.  Must  I  never  cease  to  tax  my  Faulkland  with 
this  teasing  minute  caprice  ?  Can  the  idle  reports 
of  a  silly  boor  weigh  in  your  breast  against  my  tried 
affection  ? 

Faulk.  They  have  no  weight  with  me,  Julia :  no, 
no  —  I  am  happy  if  you  have  been  so  —  yet  only  say 
that  you  did  not  sing  with  mirth  —  say  that  you 
thought  of  Faulkland  in  the  dance. 

Jul.  I  never  can  be  happy  in  your  absence.  If  I 
wear  a  countenance  of  content,  it  is  to  show  that  my 


5O  SHERIDAN'S   COMEDIES. 

mind  holds  no  doubt  of  my  Faulkland's  truth.  If  I 
seemed  sad,  it  were  to  make  malice  triumph ;  and 
say  that  I  had  fixed  my  heart  on  one  who  left  me  to 
lament  his  roving  and  my  own  credulity.  Believe 
me,  Faulkland,  I  mean  not  to  upbraid  you  when  I 
say  that  I  have  often  dressed  sorrow  in  smiles,  lest 
my  friends  should  guess  whose  unkindness  had 
caused  my  tears. 

Faulk.  You  were  ever  all  goodness  to  me.  Oh,  I 
am  a  brute,  when  I  but  admit  a  doubt  of  your  true 
constancy ! 

Jul.  If  ever  without  such  cause  from  you,  as  I 
will  not  suppose  possible,  you  find  my  affections 
veering  but  a  point,  may  I  become  a  proverbial  scoff 
for  levity  and  base  ingratitude. 

Faulk.  Ah  !  Julia,  that  last  word  is  grating  to  me. 
I  would  I  had  no  title  to  your  gratitude  !  Search 
your  heart,  Julia ;  perhaps  what  you  have  mistaken 
for  love  is  but  the  warm  effusion  of  a  too  thankful 
heart. 

Jul.    For  what  quality  must  I  love  you  ? 

Faulk.  For  no  quality !  To  regard  me  for  any 
quality  of  mind  or  understanding  were  only  to  esteem 
me.  And  for  person  —  I  have  often  wished  myself 
deformed,  to  be  convinced  that  I  owed  no  obligation 
there  for  any  part  of  your  affection. 

Jul.  Where  nature  has  bestowed  a  show  of  nice 
attention  in  the  features  of  a  man,  he  should  laugh 
at  it  as  misplaced.  I  have  seen  men,  who  in  this 
vain  article,  perhaps,  might  rank  above  you  ;  but  my 
heart  has  never  asked  my  eyes  if  it  were  so  or  not. 

Faulk.  Now  this  is  not  well  from  you,  Julia  —  I 
despise  person  in  a  man  —  yet  if  you  loved  me  as  I 
wish,  though  I  were  an  ^thiop,  you  'd  think  none  so 
fair. 


THE  RIVALS.  51 

JuL  I  see  you  are  determined  to  be  unkind! 
The  contract  which  my  poor  father  bound  us  in 
gives  you  more  than  a  lover's  privilege. 

Faulk.  Again,  Julia,  you  raise  ideas  that  feed  and 
justify  my  doubts.  I  would  not  have  been  more 
free  —  no  —  I  am  proud  of  my  restraint.  Yet  —  yet 
—  perhaps  your  high  respect  alone  for  this  solemn 
compact  has  fettered  your  inclinations,  which  else 
had  made  a  worthier  choice.  How  shall  I  be  sure, 
had  you  remained  unbound  in  thought  and  promise, 
that  I  should  still  have  been  the  object  of  your  per- 
severing love  ? 

Jul.  Then  try  me  now.  Let  us  be  free  as  stran- 
gers as  to  what  is  past :  my  heart  will  not  feel  more 
liberty  ! 

Faulk.  There  now !  so  hasty,  Julia !  so  anxious 
to  be  free !  If  your  love  for  me  were  fixed  and 
ardent,  you  would  not  lose  your  hold  even  though 
I  wished  it ! 

JuL  Oh  !  you  torture  me  to  the  heart !  I  cannot 
bear  it ! 

Faulk.  I  do  not  mean  to  distress  you.  If  I  loved 
you  less  I  should  never  give  you  an  uneasy  moment. 
But  hear  me.  All  my  fretful  doubts  arise  from  this. 
Women  are  not  used  to  weigh  and  separate  the 
motives  of  their  affections  :  the  cold  dictates  of  pru- 
dence, gratitude,  or  filial  duty,  may  sometimes  be 
mistaken  for  the  pleadings  of  the  heart.  I  would 
not  boast — yet  let  me  say  that  I  have  neither  age, 
person,  nor  character,  to  found  dislike  on ;  my 
fortune  such  as  few  ladies  could  be  charged  with 
indiscretion  in  the  match.  O  Julia  !  when  love 
receives  such  countenance  from  prudence,  nice 
minds  will  be  suspicious  of  its  birth. 

////.    I  know  not  whither  your  insinuations  would 


52  SHERIDAN'S   COMEDIES. 

tend  :  —  but  as  they  seem  pressing  to  insult  me,  I 
will  spare  you  the  regret  of  having  done  so.  I  have 
given  you  no  cause  for  this  !  \Exit  in  tears. 

Faulk.  In  tears !  Stay,  Julia :  stay  but  for  a 
moment.  —  The  door  is  fastened  !  —  Julia  !  —  my 
soul !  —  but  for  one  moment !  —  I  hear  her  sobbing 
-  'Sdeath !  —  what  a  brute  am  I  to  use  her  thus ! 
I  Yet  stay.  —  Ay  —  she  is  coming  now  :  —  how  little 
resolution  there  is  in  woman !  —  how  a  few  soft 
words  can  turn  them  !  —  No,  faith  !  —  she  is  not 
coming  either. — Why,  Julia  —  my  love  —  say  but 
that  you  forgive  me  —  come  but  to  tell  me  that  — 
now  this  is  being  too  resentful.  Stay !  she  is  com- 
ing too  —  I  thought  she  would  —  no  steadiness  in 
anything :  her  going  away  must  have  been  a  mere 
trick  then  —  she  sha'n't  see  that  I  was  hurt  by  it. 
—  I  '11  affect  indifference  —  \Hums  a  tune :  then 
listens.]  No  —  zounds!  she's  not  coming! — nor 
don't  intend  it,  I  suppose.  —  This  is  not  steadiness, 
but  obstinacy !  Yet  I  deserve  it.  —  What,  after  so 
long  an  absence  to  quarrel  with  her  tenderness  !  — 
't  was  barbarous  and  unmanly !  —  I  should  be 
ashamed  to  see  her  now.  —  I  '11  wait  till  her  just 
resentment  is  abated  —  and  when  I  distress  her  so 
again,  may  I  lose  her  forever !  and  be  linked  instead 
to  some  antique  virago,  whose  gnawing  passions  and 
long-hoarded  spleen  shall  make  me  curse  my  folly 
half  the  day  and  all  the  night.  \Eocit. 


THE  RIVALS.  53 


SCENE  III.  —  MRS.  MALAPROP'S  Lodgings. 

MRS.  MALAPROP,  with  a  letter  in  her  hand,  and  CAP- 
TAIN ABSOLUTE. 

Mrs.  Mai.  Your  being  Sir  Anthony's  son,  captain, 
would  itself  be  a  sufficient  accommodation  ;  but  from 
the  ingenuity  of  your  appearance,  I  am  convinced 
you  deserve  the  character  here  given  of  you. 

Abs.  Permit  me  to  say,  madam,  that  as  I  never 
yet  have  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  Miss  Languish, 
my  principal  inducement  in  this  affair  at  present  is 
the  honour  of  being  allied  to  Mrs.  Malaprop,  of  whose 
intellectual  accomplishments,  elegant  manners,  and 
unaffected  learning,  no  tongue  is  silent. 

Mrs.  Mai.  Sir,  you  do  me  infinite  honour !  I  beg, 
captain,  you'll  be  seated.  —  {They  sit.~\  Ah!  few 
gentlemen,  now-a-days,  know  how  to  value  the  in-; 
effectual  qualities  in  a  woman  !  few  think  how  a  little 
knowledge  becomes  a  gentlewoman  !  —  Men  have  no 
sense  now  but  for  the  worthless  flower  of  beauty ! 

Abs.  It  is  but  too  true,  indeed,  ma'am;  —  yet  I 
fear  our  ladies  should  share  the  blame  —  they  think 
our  admiration  of  beauty  so  great  that  knowledge  in 
them  would  be  superfluous.  Thus,  like  garden-trees, 
they  seldom  show  fruit  till  time  has  robbed  them  of- 
the  more  specious  blossom.  —  Few,  like  Mrs.  Mala- 
prop and  the  orange-tree,  are  rich  in  both  at 
once ! 

Mrs.  Mai.  Sir,  you  overpower  me  with  good-breed- 
ing. —  He  is  the  very  pine-apple  of  politeness  !  —  You 
are  not  ignorant,  captain,  that  this  giddy  girl  has  some- 
how contrived  to  fix  her  affections  on  a  beggarly, 
strolling,  eaves-dropping  ensign,  whom  none  of  us 
have  seen,  and  nobody  knows  anything  of. 


54  SHERIDAWS   COMEDIES. 

i 

Abs.  Oh,  I  have  heard  the  silly  affair  before. 
— I  'm  not  at  all  prejudiced  against  her  on  that 
account. 

Mrs.  Mai.  You  are  very  good  and  very  con- 
siderate, captain.  I  am  sure  I  have  done  everything 
in  my  power  since  I  exploded  the  affair ;  long  ago 
I  laid  my  positive  conjunctions  on  her,  never  to 
think  on  the  fellow  again  ;  —  I  have  since  laid  Sir 
Anthony's  preposition  before  her ;  but,  I  am  sorry  to 
say  she  seems  resolved  to  decline  every  particle  that 
I  enjoin  her. 

Abs.    It  must  be  very  distressing,  indeed,  ma'am. 

Mrs.  Mai.  Oh,  it  gives  me  the  hydrostatics  to 
such  a  degree.  —  I  thought  she  had  persisted  from 
corresponding  with  him  ;  but,  behold,  this  very  day, 
I  have  interceded  another  letter  from  the  fellow ;  I 
believe  I  have  it  in  my  pocket. 

Abs.    Oh,  the  devil !  my  last  note.  [Aside. 

Mrs.  Mai.    Ay,  here  it  is. 

Abs.  Ay,  my  note  indeed  !  O  the  little  traitress 
Lucy.  [Aside. 

Mrs.  Mai.  There,  perhaps  you  may  know  the 
writing.  [  Gives  him  the  letter. 

Abs.  I  think  I  have  seen  the  hand  before  —  yes, 
I  certainly  must  have  seen  this  hand  before  — 

Mrs.  Mai.    Nay,  but  read  it,  captain. 

Abs.    [Reads.]     My  souVs  idol,  my  adored  Lydia  ! 

—  Very  tender  indeed  ! 

Mrs.  Mai.  Tender !  ay,  and  profane  too,  o'  my 
conscience. 

Abs.  [Reads.]  I  am  excessively  alarmed  at  the  in- 
telligence you  send  me,  the  more  so  as  my  new  rival 

Mrs.  Mai.    That  's  you,  sir. 

Abs.  [Reads.]  Has  universally  the  character  of 
being  an  accomplished  gentleman  and  a  man  of  honour. 

—  Well,  that  's  handsome  enough. 


THE  RIVALS.  55 

Mrs.  Mai.  Oh,  the  fellow  has  some  design  in 
writing  so, 

Abs.    That  he  had,  I  '11  answer  for  him,  ma'am. 

Mrs.  Mai.    But  go  on,  sir  —  you  '11  see  presently. 

Abs.  [Reads.]  As  for  the  old  weather-beaten  she- 
dragon  who  guards  you —  Who  can  he  mean  by 
that? 

Mrs.  Mai.  Me,  sir  —  me  !  —  he  means  me  !  — 
There  —  what  do  you  think  now?  —  but  go  on  a 
little  further. 

Abs.  Impudent  scoundrel !  —  [Reads.]  /'/  shall  go 
hard  but  I  will  elude  her  vigilance,  as  I  am  told  that 
the  same  ridiculous  vanity  which  makes  her  dress  up 
her  coarse  features  and  deck  her  dull  chat  with  hard 
words  which  she  don't  understand 

Mrs.  Mai.  There,  sir,  an  attack  upon  my  lan- 
guage !  What  do  you  think  of  that  ?  —  an  aspersion 
upon  my  parts  of  speech !  was  ever  such  a  brute ! 
Sure,  if  I  reprehend  anything  in  this  world,  it  is  the 
use  of  my  oracular  tongue,  and  a  nice  derangement  ' 
of  epitaphs ! 

Abs.  He  deserves  to  be  hanged  and  quartered ! 
let  me  see  —  [Reads.]  same  ridiculous  vanity 

Mrs.  Mai.    You  need  not  read  it  again,  sir. 

Abs.  I  beg  pardon,  ma'am.  —  [Reads.]  does  also 
lay  her  open  to  the  grossest  deceptions  from  flattery  and 
pretended  admiration  —  an  impudent  coxcomb  —  so 
that  I  have  a  scheme  to  see  you  shortly  with  the  old 
harridan's  consent,  and  even  to  make  her  a  go-between 
in  our  interview.  —  Was  ever  such  assurance  ! 

Mrs.  Mai.  Did  you  ever  hear  anything  like  it  ?  — 
he  '11  elude  my  vigilance,  will  he  —  yes,  yes !  ha  !  ha! 
he  's  very  likely  to  enter  these  doors  ;  —  we  '11  try 
who  can  plot  best ! 

Abs.    So  we  will,  ma'am  —  so  we  will !     Ha  !  ha  ! 


$6  SHERIDAN'S   COMEDIES. 

ha!  a  conceited  puppy,  ha!  ha!  ha!  —  Well,  but 
Mrs.  Malaprop,  as  the  girl  seems  so  infatuated  by 
this  fellow,  suppose  you  were  to  wink  at  her  corre- 
sponding with  him  for  a  little  time  —  let  her  even  plot 
an  elopement  with  him  —  then  do  you  connive  at  her 
escape  —  while  I,  just  in  the  nick,  will  have  the  fel- 
low laid  by  the  heels,  and  fairly  contrive  to  carry 
her  off  in  his  stead. 

Mrs.  Mai.  I  am  delighted  with  the  scheme  ;  never 
was  anything  better  perpetrated  ! 

Abs.  But,  pray,  could  not  I  see  the  lady  for  a  few 
minutes  now  ?  —  I  should  like  to  try  her  temper  a  little. 

Mrs.  Mai.  Why,  I  don't  know  —  I  doubt  she  is  not 
prepared  for  a  visit  of  this  kind.  There  is  a  decorum 
in  these  matters. 

Abs.  O  Lord  1  she  won't  mind  me  —  only  tell  her 
Beverley 

Mrs.  MaL    Sir. 

Abs.    Gently,  good  tongue.  [Aside. 

Mrs.  Mai.    What  did  you  say  of  Beverley  ? 

Abs.  Oh,  I  was  going  to  propose  that  you  should 
tell  her,  by  way  of  jest,  that  it  was  Beverley  who  was 
below;  she  'd  come  down  fast  enough  then  —  ha! 
ha!  ha! 

Mrs.  Mai.  'T  would  be  a  trick  she  well  deserves  ; 
besides,  you  know  the  fellow  tells  her  he  '11  get  my 
consent  to  see  her  —  ha  !  ha  !  Let  him  if  he  can,  I  say 
again.  Lydia,  come  down  here  !  —  [Calling. ~\  He  '11 
make  me  a  go-between  in  their  interviews  !  ha !  ha  ! 
ha  !  Come  down,  I  say,  Lydia  !  I  don't  wonder  at 
your  laughing,  ha !  ha  !  ha !  his  impudence  is  truly 
ridiculous. 

Abs.  'T  is  very  ridiculous,  upon  my  soul,  ma'am, 
ha  !  ha  !  ha  1 

Mrs.  Mai.   The  little  hussy  won't  hear.    Well,  I  '11 


THE  RIVALS.  57 

go  and  tell  her  at  once  who  it  is  —  she  shall  know 
that  Captain  Absolute  is  come  to  wait  on  her.  And 
I  '11  make  her  behave  as  becomes  a  young  woman. 

Abs.   As  you  please,  ma'am. 

Mrs.  Mai.  For  the  present,  captain,  your  servant. 
Ah  !  you  Ve  not  done  laughing  yet,  I  see  —  elude  my 
vigilance;  yes,  yes  ;  ha!  ha!  ha!  {Exit. 

Abs.  Ha !  ha !  ha !  one  would  think  now  that  I 
might  throw  off  'all  disguise  at  once,  and  seize  my 
prize  with  security ;  but  such  is  Lydia's  caprice, 
that  to  undeceive  were  probably  to  lose  her.  I  '11 
see  whether  she  knows  me. 

[  Walks  aside,  and  seems  engaged  in  looking  at  the 
pictures. 

Enter  LYDIA. 

Lyd.  What  a  scene  am  I  now  to  go  through ! 
surely  nothing  can  be  more  dreadful  than  to  be 
obliged  to  listen  to  the  loathsome  addresses  of  a 
stranger  to  one's  heart.  I  have  heard  of  girls  per- 
secuted as  I  am  who  have  appealed  in  behalf  of  their 
favoured  lover  to  the  generosity  of  his  rival ;  sup- 
pose I  were  to  try  it  —  there  stands  the  hated  rival 
—  an  officer  too  !  — but  oh,  how  unlike  my  Beverley  ! 
I  wonder  he  don't  begin  —  truly  he  seems  a  very 
negligent  wooer !  —  quite  at  his  ease,  upon  my 
word!  —  I'll  speak  first  —  Mr.  Absolute. 

Abs.    Ma'am.  {Turns  round. 

Lyd.   O  heavens  !  Beverley  ! 

Abs.  Hush! — hush,  my  life!  softly!  be  not 
surprised ! 

Lyd.  I  am  so  astonished !  and  so  terrified !  and 
so  overjoyed !  for  Heaven's  sake  !  how  came  you 
here? 

Abs.    Briefly,  I  have  deceived  your  aunt  —  I  was 


58  SHERIDAN^  S   COMEDIES. 

\ 

informed  that  my  new  rival  was  to  visit  here  this 
evening,  and,  contriving  to  have  him  kept  away, 
have  passed  myself  on  her  for  Captain  Absolute. 

Lyd.  O  charming !  And  she  really  takes  you  for 
young  Absolute  ? 

Abs.   Oh,  she  's  convinced  of  it. 

Lyd.  Ha !  ha !  ha !  I  can't  forbear  laughing  to 
think  how  her  sagacity  is  overreached ! 

Abs.  But  we  trifle  with  our  precious  moments  — 
such  another  opportunity  may  not  occur ;  then  let 
me  now  conjure  my  kind,  my  condescending  angel, 
to  fix  the  time  when  I  may  rescue  her  from  unde- 
serving persecution,  and  with  a  licensed  warmth 
plead  for  my  reward. 

Lyd.  Will  you,  then,  Beverley,  consent  to  forfeit 
that  portion  of  my  paltry  wealth  ?  that  burden  on  the 
wings  of  love? 

Abs.  Oh,  come  to  me  —  rich  only  thus  —  in  love- 
liness !  Bring  no  portion  to  me  but  thy  love  — 
't  will  be  generous  in  you,  Lydia  —  for  well  you  know, 
it  is  the  only  dower  your  poor  Beverley  can  repay. 

Lyd.  How  persuasive  are  his  words ! — how  charm- 
ing will  poverty  be  with  him  !  [Aside. 

Abs.  Ah  !  my  soul,  what  a  life  will  we  then  live  ! 
love  shall  be  our  idol  and  support !  we  will  worship 
him  with  a  monastic  strictness  ;  abjuring  all  worldly 
toys,  to  centre  every  thought  and  action  there. 
Proud  of  calamity,  we  will  enjoy  the  wreck  of  wealth  ; 
while  the  surrounding  gloom  of  adversity  shall  make 
the  flame  of  our  pure  love  show  doubly  bright.  By 
Heavens  !  I  would  fling  all  goods  of  fortune  from 
me  with  a  prodigal  hand,  to  enjoy  the  scene  where 
I  might  clasp  my  Lydia  to  my  bosom,  and  say,  the 
world  affords  no  smile  to  me  but  here  —  \_Embracing 
herJ\  If  she  holds  out  now,  the  devil  is  in  it !  [Aside. 


THE  RIVALS.,  59 

Lyd.  Now  could  I  fly  with  him  to  the  antipodes  ! 
but  my  persecution  is  not  yet  come  to  a  crisis. 

[Aside. 

Reenter  MRS.  MALAPROP,  listening. 

Mrs.  MaL  I  am  impatient  to  know  how  the  little 
hussy  deports  herself.  [Aside. 

Abs.  So  pensive,  Lydia !  —  is  then  your  warmth 
abated  ? 

Mrs.  Mai.  Warmth  abated  !" —  so !  —  she  has  been 
in  a  passion,  I  suppose.  [Aside. 

Lyd.    No  —  nor  ever  can  while  I  have  life. 

Mrs.  Mai.  An  ill-tempered  little  devil !  she  '11  be 
in  a  passion  all  her  life  — -  will  she  ?  [Aside. 

Lyd.  Think  not  the  idle  threats  of  my  ridiculous 
aunt  can  ever  have  any  weight  with  me. 

Mrs.  Mai.   Very  dutiful,  upon  my  word  !      [Aside. 

Lyd.  Let  her  choice  be  Captain  Absolute,  but 
Beverley  is  mine. 

Mrs.  Mai.  I  am  astonished  at  her  assurance !  — 
to  his  face  —  this  is  to  his  face  !  [Aside. 

Abs.    Thus  then  let  me  enforce  my  suit.     [Kneeling. 

Mrs.  Mai.  [Aside]  Ay,  poor  young  man  !  —  down 
on  his  knees  entreating  for  pity  !  —  I  can  contain  no 
longer.  —  [Coming  forward.']  Why,  thou  vixen !  I 
have  overheard  you. 

Abs.    Oh,  confound  her  vigilance  !  [Aside. 

Mrs.  Mai.  Captain  Absolute,  I  know  not  how  to 
apologize  for  her  shocking  rudeness. 

Abs.  [Aside.]  So  —  all 's  safe,  I  find.  —  [Aloud.] 
I  have  hopes,  madam,  that  time  will  bring  the  young 
lady 

Mrs.  Mai.  Oh,  there  's  nothing  to  be  hoped  for 
from  her  !  she 's  as  headstrong  as  an  allegory  on  the 
banks  of  the  Nile. 


60  SHERIDAN'S   COMEDIES. 

i 

Lyd.  Nay,  madam,  what  do  you  charge  me  with 
now? 

Mrs.  MaL  Why,  thou  unblushing  rebel  —  didn't 
you  tell  this  gentleman  to  his  face  that  you  loved 
another  better  ?  —  did  n't  you  say  you  never  would  be 
his? 

L yd.    No,  madam  —  I  did  not. 

Mrs.  Mai.  Good  heavens  !  what  assurance  !  — 
Lydia,  Lydia,  you  ought  to  know  that  lying  don't 
become  a  young  woman  !  —  Did  n't  you  boast  that 
Beverley,  that  stroller  Beverley,  possessed  your 
heart  ?  —  Tell  me  that,  I  say. 

Lyd.  'T  is  true,  ma'am,  and  none  but  Bever- 
ley  

Mrs.  Mai.  Hold  !  hold,  Assurance  !  —  you  shall 
not  be  so  rude. 

Abs.  Nay,  pray,  Mrs.  Malaprop,  don't  stop  the 
young  lady's  speech  :  —  she  's  very  welcome  to  talk 
thus  —  it  does  not  hurt  me  in  the  least,  I  assure  you. 

Mrs.  Mai.  You  are  too  good,  captain  —  too  ami- 
ably patient  —  but  come  with  me,  miss.  —  Let  us  see 
you  again  soon,  captain  —  remember  what  we  have 
fixed. 

Abs.    I  shall,  ma'am. 

Mrs.  Mai.  Come,  take  a  graceful  leave-  of  the 
gentleman. 

Lyd.  May  every  blessing  wait  on  my  Beverley, 
my  loved  Bev 

Mrs.  Mai.  Hussy !  I  '11  choke  the  word  in  your 
throat !  —  come  along  —  come  along. 

[Exeunt  severally ,  CAPTAIN  ABSOLUTE  kissing  his 
hand  to  LYDIA  —  MRS.  MALAPROP  stopping  her 
from  speaking. 


THE  RIVALS.  6 1 

SCENE  IV.  —  ACRES 's  Lodgings. 
ACRES,  as  just  dressed,  and  I) AVIV. 

Acres.  Indeed,  David  —  do  you  think  I  become 
it  so? 

Dav.  You  are  quite  another  creature,  believe  me, 
master,  by  the  mass  !  an'  we  've  any  luck  we  shall 
see  the  Devon  monkerony  in  all  the  print-shops  in 
Bath! 

Acres.    Dress  does  make  a  difference,  David. 

Dav.  'T  is  all  in  all,  I  think.  —  Difference  !  why, 
an'  you  were  to  go  now  to  Clod-Hall,  I  am  certain 
the  old  lady  would  n't  know  you :  Master  Butler 
would  n't  believe  his  own  eyes,  and  Mrs.  Pickle  would 
cry, '  Lard  presarve  me  ! '  our  dairy-maid  would  come 
giggling  to  the  door,  and  I  warrant  Dolly  Tester, 
your  honour's  favourite,  would  blush  like  my  waist- 
coat. —  Oons  !  I  '11  hold  a  gallon,  there  a'nt  a  dog  in 
the  house  but  would  bark,  and  I  question  whether 
Phillis  would  wag  a  hair  of  her  tail  I 

Acres.    Ay,  David,  there  's  nothing  like  polishing. 

Dav.  So  I  says  of  your  honour's  boots ;  but  the 
boy  never  heeds  me  ! 

Acres.  But,  David,  has  Mr.  De-la-grace  been 
here  ?  I  must  rub  up  my  balancing,  and  chasing, 
and  boring. 

Dav.    I  '11  call  again,  sir. 

Acres.  Do  —  and  see  if  there  are  any  letters  for 
me  at  the  post-office. 

Dav.  I  will.  —  By  the  mass,  I  can't  help  looking 
at  your  head  !  —  if  I  had  n't  been  by  at  the  cooking, 
I  wish  I  may  die  if  I  should  nave,  known  the  dish 
again  myself  1  \Exit* 


62  SHERIDAN'S   COMEDIES. 

Acres.  \Comes  forward,  practising  a  dancing  step^ 
Sink,  slide  —  coupee.  —  Confound  the  first  inventors 
of  cotillons !  say  I  —  they  are  as  bad  as  algebra  to 
us  country  gentlemen  —  I  can  walk  a  minuet  easy 
enough  when  I  am  forced !  —  and  I  have  been 
accounted  a  good  stick  in  a  country  dance.  —  Odds 
jigs  and  tabors !  I  never  valued  your  cross-over  to 
couple  —  figure  in  —  right  and  left — and  I'd  foot 
it  with  e'er  a  captain  in  the  country!  —  but  these 
outlandish  heathen  allemandes  and  cotillons  are 
quite  beyond  me  !  —  I  shall  never  prosper  at  'em, 
that 's  sure  —  mine  are  true-born  English  legs  — 
they  don't  understand  their  curst  French  lingo !  — 
their  pas  this,  and/^w  that,  and/^  t'other!  —  damn 
me !  my  feet  don't  like  to  be  called  paws !  no  't  is 
certain  I  have  most  Antigallican  toes ! 

Enter  SERVANT. 

Serv.  Here  is  Sir  Lucius  O 'Trigger  to  wait  on 
you,  sir. 

Acres.    Show  him  in  !  [Exit  SERVANT. 

Enter  SIR  Lucius  O'TRIGGER. 

Sir  Luc.  Mr.  Acres,  I  am  delighted  to  embrace 
you. 

Acres.    My  dear  Sir  Lucius,  I  kiss  your  hands. 

Sir  Luc.  Pray,  my  friend,  what  has  brought  you 
so  suddenly  to  Bath  ? 

Acres.  Faith!  I  have  followed  Cupid's  }ack-a- 
lantern,  and  find  myself  in  a  quagmire  at  last.  —  In 
short,  I  have  been  very  ill  used,  Sir  Lucius.  —  I  don't 
choose  to  mention  names,  but  look  on  me  as  on  a 
very  ill-used  gentleman. 

Sir  Luc.    Pray  what  is  the  case  ?  —  I  ask  no  names. 

Acres.    Mark  me,   Sir  Lucius,,  I  fall  as  deep  as 


THE  RIVALS.  63 

need  be  in  love  with  a  young  lady  —  her  friends 
take  my  part  —  I  follow  her  to  Bath  —  send  word  of 
my  arrival ;  and  receive  answer,  that  the  lady  is  to 
be  otherwise  disposed  of.  —  This,  Sir  Lucius,  I  call 
being  ill  used. 

Sir  Luc.  Very  ill,  upon  my  conscience.  —  Pray, 
can  you  divine  the  cause  of  it  ? 

Acres.  Why,  there  's  the  matter ;  she  has  another 
lover,  one  Beverley,  who,  I  am  told,  is  now  in  Bath.  — 
Odds  slanders  and  lies  !  he  must  be  at  the  bottom 
of  it. 

Sir  Luc.  A  rival  in  the  case,  is  there  ?  —  and  you 
think  he  has  supplanted  you  unfairly  ? 

Acres.  Unfairly  !  to  be  sure  he  has.  He  never 
could  have  done  it  fairly. 

Sir  Luc.    Then  sure  you  know  what  is  to  be  done  ! 

Acres.    Not  I,  upon  my  soul ! 

Sir  Luc.  We  wear  no  swords  here,  but  you  under- 
stand me. 

Acres.    What !  fight  him  ! 

Sir  Luc.   Ay,  to  be  sure  :  what  can  I  mean  else  ? 

Acres.    But  he  has  given  me  no  provocation. 

Sir  Luc.  Now,  I  think  he  hajL  given  you  the  great- 
est provocation  in  the  world.  ^Can  a  man  commit  a 
more  heinous  offence  against  another  than  to  fall  in 
love  with  the  same  womaaP  Oh,  by  my  soul !  it  is 
the  most  unpardonable  breach  of  friendship. 

Acres.  Breach  of  friendship  !  Ay,  ay  ;  but  I  have 
no  acquaintance  with  this  man.  I  never  saw  him  in 
my  life. 

Sir  Luc.  That 's  no  argument  at  all  —  he  has  the 
less  right  then  to  take  such  a  liberty. 

Acres.  Gad,  that 's  true  —  I  grow  full  of  anger, 
Sir  Lucius  !  I  fire  apace  !  Odds  hilts  and  blades  ! 
I  rind  a  man  may  have  a  deal  of  valour  in  him,  and 


64  SHERIDAN;  s  COMEDIES. 

not  know  it !  But  could  n't  I  contrive  to  have  a  little 
right  of  my  side  ? 

Sir  Luc.  What  the  devil  signifies  right,  when  your 
honour  is  concerned  ?  Do  you  think  Achilles  or 
my  little  Alexander  the  Great  ever  inquired  where 
the  right  lay  ?  No,  by  my  soul,  they  drew  their 
broadswords,  and  left  the  lazy  sons  of  peace  to  set- 
tle the  justice  of  it. 

Acres.  Your  words  are  a  grenadier's  march  to  my 
heart ;  I  believe  courage  must  be  catching !  I  cer- 
tainly do  feel  a  kind  of  valour  rising  as  it  were  —  a 
kind  of  courage,  as  I  may  say.  —  Odds  flints,  pans, 
and  triggers !  I  '11  challenge  him  directly. 

Sir  Luc.  Ah,  my  little  friend !  if  I  had  Blunder- 
buss-Hall here,  I  could  show  you  a  range  of  ancestry, 
in  the  O'Trigger  line,  that  would  furnish  the  new 
room ;  every  one  of  whom  had  killed  his  man !  — 
For  though  the  mansion-house  and  dirty  acres  have 
slipped  through  my  fingers,  I  thank  heaven  our 
honour  and  the  family  pictures  are  as  fresh  as  ever. 

Acres.  O,  Sir  Lucius  !  I  have  had  ancestors  too  !  — 
every  man  of  'em  colonel  or  captain  in  the  militia  !  — 
Odds  balls  and  barrels  !  —  say  no  more  —  I  'm  braced 
for  it.  The  thunder  of  your  words  has  soured  the 
milk  of  human  kindness  in  my  breast ;  —  Zounds  ! 
as  the  man  in  the  play  says,  'I  could  do  such 
deeds  /' 

Sir  Luc.  Come,  come,  there  must  be  no  passion 
at  all  in  the  case  —  these  things  should  always  be 
done  civilly. 

Acres.  I  must  be  in  a  passion,  Sir  Lucius  —  I 
must  be  in  a  rage.  —  Dear  Sir  Lucius,  let  me  be  in 
a  rage,  if  you  love  me.  Come,  here  's  pen  and  paper. 
—  [Sits  down  to  write.}  I  would  the  ink  were  red  !  — 
Indite,  I  say  indite  !  —  How  shall  I  begin  ?  Odds 


THE   RIVALS.  65 

bullets  and  blades  !     I  '11  write  a  good  bold  hand, 
however. 

Sir  Luc.    Pray  compose  yourself. 

Acres.  Come  —  now,  shall  I  begin  with  an  oath  ? 
Do,  Sir  Lucius,  let  me  begin  with  a  damme. 

Sir  Luc.  Pho !  pho !  do  the  thing  decently,  and 
like  a  Christian.  Begin  now  —  Sir 

Acres.    That 's  too  civil  by  half. 

Sir  Luc.  To  prevent  the  confusion  that  might 
arise 

Acres.    Well 

Sir  Luc.  From  our  both  addressing  the.  same 
lady 

Acres.    Ay,    there  's   the    reason  —  same    lady  — 
well 

Sir  Luc.  I  shall  expect  the  honour  of  your  com- 
pany   

Acres.   Zounds  !     I  'm  not  asking  him  to  dinner. 

Sir  Luc.    Pray  be  easy. 

Acres.    Well  then,  honour  of  your  company 

Sir  Luc.    To  settle  our  pretensions 

Acres.    Well. 

Sir  Luc.  Let  me  see,  ay,  King's-Mead-Field  will 
do  —  in  King's- Mead- Fields. 

Acres.  So,  that 's  done  —  Well,  I  '11  fold  it  up  pres- 
ently ;  my  own  crest — a  hand  and  dagger  shall 
be  the  seal. 

Sir  Luc.  You  see  now  this  little  explanation  will 
put  a  stop  at  once  to  all  confusion  or  misunderstand- 
ing that  might  arise  between  you. 

Acres.  Ay,  we  fight  to  prevent  any  misunder- 
standing. 

Sir  Luc.  Now,  I  '11  leave  you  to  fix  your  own  time. 
—  Take  my  advice,  and  you  '11  decide  it  this  evening 


66  SHERIDAN'S   COMEDIES. 

if  you  can  ;  then  let  the  worst  come  of  it,  'twill  be 
off  your  mind  to-morrow. 

Acres.     Very  true. 

Sir  Luc.  So  I  shall  see  nothing  more  of  you,  un- 
less it  be  by  letter,  till  the  evening.  —  I  would  do 
myself  the  honour  to  carry  your  message  ;  but,  to  tell 
you  a  secret,  I  believe  I  shall  have  just  such  another 
affair  on  my  own  hands.  There  is  a  gay  captain  here, 
who  put  a  jest  on  me  lately  at  the  expense  of  my 
country,  and  I  only  want  to  fall  in  with  the  gentle- 
man to  call  him  out. 

Acres.  By  my  valour,  I  should  like  to  see  you 
fight  first !  Odds  life  !  I  should  like  to  see  you  kill 
him  if  it  was  only  to  get  a  little  lesson. 

Sir  Luc.  I  shall  be  very  proud  of  instructing  you. 
—  Well  for  the  present  —  but  remember  now,  when 
you  meet  your  antagonist,  do  everything  in  a  mild 
and  agreeable  manner.  —  Let  your  courage  be  as 
keen,  but  at  the  same  time  as  polished,  as  your 
sword.  \Exeunt  severally. 


THE  RIVALS.  67 


ACT    IV. 

SCENE  I.  —  ACRES 's  Lodgings. 
ACRES  and  DAVID. 

Dav.  Then,  by  the  mass,  sir  !  I  would  do  no 
such  thing — ne'er  a  Sir  Lucius  O'Trigger  in  the 
kingdom  should  make  me  fight,  when  I  wa'n't  so 
minded.  Oons!  what  will  the  old  lady  say,  when 
she  hears  o't  ? 

Acres.  Ah  !  David,  if  you  had  heard  Sir  Lucius  ! 
—  Odds  sparks  and  flames !  he  would  have  roused 
your  valour. 

Dav.  Not  he,  indeed.  I  hates  such  bloodthirsty 
cormorants.  Look'ee,  master,  if  you  'd  wanted  a  bout 
at  boxing,  quarter-staff,  or  short-staff,  I  should  never 
be  the  man  to  bid  you  cry  off :  but  for  your  curst 
sharps  and  snaps,  I  never  knew  any  good  come  of 
'em. 

Acres.  But  my  honour,  David,  my  honour  !  I 
must  be  very  careful  of  my  honour. 

Dav.  Ay,  by  the  mass  !  and  I  would  be  very  care- 
ful of  it ;  and  I  think  in  return  my  honour  could  n't 
do  less  than  to  be  very  careful  of  me. 

Acres.  Odds  blades  !  David,  no  gentleman  will 
ever  risk  the  loss  of  his  honour  ! 

Dav.  I  say  then,  it  would  be  but  civil  in  honour 
never  to  risk  the  loss  of  a  gentleman.  —  Look'ee, 
master,  this  honour  seems  to  me  to  be  a  marvellous 
false  friend  :  ay,  truly,  a  very  courtier-like  servant.  — 


68  SHERIDAN^   COMEDIES. 

Put  the  case,  I  was  a  gentleman  (which,  thank  God, 
no  one  can  say  of  me)  ;  well  —  my  honour  makes  me 
quarrel  with  another  gentleman  of  my  acquaintance. 

—  So  —  we  fight.     (Pleasant   enough   that !)     Boh  ! 

—  I  kill  him  —  (the  more  's  my  luck.)     Now,  pray 
who  gets  the  profit  of  it  ?  —  Why,  my  honour.     But 
put  the  case  that  he  kills  me!  —  by  the  mass  !  I  go 
to   the  worms,  and   my  honour  whips    over   to    my 
enemy. 

Acres.  No,  David  —  in  that  case  !  —  Odds  crowns 
and  laurels  !  your  honour  follows  you  to  the  grave. 

Dav.  Now  that 's  just  the  place  where  I  could 
make  a  shift  to  do  without  it. 

Acres.  Zounds  !  David,  you  are  a  coward  !  —  It 
does  n't  become  my  valour  to  listen  to  you.  —  What, 
shall  I  disgrace  my  ancestors  ?  —  Think  of  that, 
David  —  think  what  it  would  be  to  disgrace  my  an- 
cestors ! 

Dav.  Under  favour,  the  surest  way  of  not  disgrac- 
ing them  is  to  keep  as  long  as  you  can  out  of  their 
company.  Look'ee  now,  master,  to  go  to  them  in 
such  haste  —  with  an  ounce  of  lead  in  your  brains  — 
I  should  think  might  as  well  be  let  alone.  Our 
ancestors  are  very  good  kind  of  folks ;  but  they  are 
the  last  people  I  should  choose  to  have  a  visiting 
acquaintance  .with. 

Acres.  But,  David,  now,  you  don't  think  there  is 
such  very,  very,  very  great  danger,  hey  ?  —  Odds  life  ! 
people  often  fight  without  any  mischief  done  ! 

Dav.  By  the  mass,  I  think  't  is  ten  to  one  against 
you!  —  Oons  !  here  to  meet  some  lion-headed  fellow, 
I  warrant,  with  his  damned  double-barrelled  swords, 
and  cut-and-thrust  pistols  !  —  Lord  bless  us  !  it  makes 
me  tremble  to  think  o't !  —  Those  be  such  desperate 
bloody-minded  weapons  !  Well,  I  never  could  abide 


THE  RIVALS.  69 

'em  —  from  a  child  I  never  could  fancy  'em  !  —  I  sup- 
pose there  a'n't  been  so  merciless  a  beast  in  the  world 
as  your  loaded  pistol ! 

Acres.  Zounds  !  I  won't  be  afraid  !  —  Odds  fire  and 
fury!  you  shan't  make  me  afraid.  —  Here  is  the 
challenge,  and  I  have  sent  for  my  dear  friend  Jack 
Absolute  to  carry  it  for  me. 

Dav.  Ay,  i'  the  name  of  mischief,  let  him  be  the 
messenger.  —  For  my  part,  I  would  n't  lend  a  hand 
to  it  for  the  best  horse  in  your  stable.  By  the  mass ! 
it  don't  look  like  another  letter  I  It  is,  as  I  may 
say,  a  designing  and  malicious-looking  letter ;  — 
and  I  warrant  smells  of  gunpowder  like  a  soldier's 
pouch!  —  Oons  !  I  wouldn't  swear  it  mayn't  go 
off! 

Acres.  Out,  you  poltroon  !  you  ha 'n't  the  valour  of 
a  grasshopper. 

Dav.  Well,  I  say  no  more  —  't  will  be  sad  news, 
to  be  sure,  at  Clod-Hall!  but  I  ha'  done.  —  How 
Phi  His  will  howl  when  she  hears  of  it!  —  Ay,  poor 
bitch,  she  little  thinks  what  shooting  her  master  's 
going  after  1  —  And  I  warrant  old  Crop,  who  has  car- 
ried your  honour,  field  and  road,  these  ten  years,  will 
curse  the  hour  he  was  born.  [  Whimpering. 

Acres.  It  won't  do,  David  —  I  am  determined  to 
fight  —  so  get  along,  you  coward,  while  I  'm  in  the 
mind. 

Enter  SERVANT. 

Serv.    Captain  Absolute,  sir. 

Acres.    Oh  !  show  him  up.  \Exit  SERVANT. 

Dav.  Well,  Heaven  send  we  be  all  alive  this  time 
to-morrow. 

Acres.   What 's  that  ?  —  Don't  provoke  me,  David  ! 
Dav.    Good-by,  master.  \Whimpering. 


70  SHERIDAN'S   COMEDIES. 

Acres.  Get  along,  you  cowardly,  dastardly,  croak- 
ing raven  1  [Exit  DAVID. 

Enter  CAPTAIN  ABSOLUTE. 

Abs.   What 's  the  matter,  Bob  ? 

Acres.  A  vile,  sheep-hearted  blockhead  !  —  If  I 
had  n't  the  valour  of  St.  George  and  the  dragon  to 
boot 

Abs.    But  what  did  you  want  with  me,  Bob  ? 

Acres.   Oh  !  —  there 

[Gives  him  the  challenge. 

Abs.  [Aside.~\  To  Ensign  Beverley.  —  So,  what 's 
going  on  now  ?  —  [Aloud.']  Well,  what 's  this  ? 

Acres.    A  challenge ! 

Abs.  Indeed !  Why,  you  won't  fight  him ;  will 
you,  Bob  ? 

Acres.  Egad,  but  I  will,  Jack.  Sir  Lucius  has 
wrought  me  to  it.  He  has  left  me  full  of  rage  —  and 
I  '11  fight  this  evening,  that  so  much  good  passion 
mayn't  be  wasted. 

Abs.    But  what  have  I  to  do  with  this  ? 

Acres.  Why,  as  I  think  you  know  something  of 
this  fellow,  I  want  you  to  find  him  out  for  me,  and 
give  him  this  mortal  defiance. 

Abs.   Well,  give  it  to  me,  and  trust  me  he  gets  it. 

Acres.  Thank  you,  my  dear  friend,  my  dear  Jack  ; 
but  it  is  giving  you  a  great  deal  of  trouble. 

Abs.  Not  in  the  least  —  I  beg  you  won't  mention 
it.  —  No  trouble  in  the  world,  I  assure  you. 

Acres.  You  are  very  kind.  —  What  it  is  to  have  a 
friend  I  —  You  could  n't  be  my  second,  could  you, 
Jack? 

Abs.  Why  no,  Bob  —  not  in  this  affair  —  it  would 
not  be  quite  so  proper. 


THE  RIVALS.  fl 

Acres.   Well,  then,  I  must  get  my  friend  Sir  Lucius. 
I  shall  have  your  good  wishes,  however,  Jack  ? 
Abs.   Whenever  he  meets  you,  believe  me. 

Reenter  SERVANT. 

Serv.  Sir  Anthony  Absolute  is  below,  inquiring  for 
the  captain. 

Abs.  I  '11  come  instantly.  —  [Exit  SERVANT.] 
Well,  my  little  hero,  success  attend  you.  [Going. 

Acres.  Stay  —  stay,  Jack.  —  If  Beverley  should  ask 
you  what  kind  of  a  man  your  friend  Acres  is,  do  tell 
him  I  am  a  devil  of  a  fellow— r will  you,  Jack? 

Abs.  To  be  sure  I  shall.  I  '11  say  you  are  a  deter- 
mined dog  —  hey,  Bob  ! 

Acres.  Ay,  do,  do  —  and  if  that  frightens  him, 
egad,  perhaps  he  may  n't  come.  So  tell  him  I  gen- 
erally kill  a  man  a  week  ;  will  you,  Jack  ? 

Abs.  I  will,  I  will ;  I  '11  say  you  are  called  in  the 
country  Fighting  Bob. 

Acres.  Right  —  right  —  't  is  all  to  prevent  mis- 
chief ;  for  I  don't  want  to  take  his  life  if  I  clear  my 
honour. 

Abs.    No  !  —  that 's  very  kind  of  you. 

Acres.  Why,  you  don't  wish  me  to  kill  him  —  do 
you,  Jack  ? 

Abs.  No,  upon  my  soul,  I  do  not.  —  But  a  devil  of 
a  fellow,  hey  ?  [  Going. 

Acres.  True,  true  —  but  stay — stay,  Jack  —  you 
may  add  that  you  never  saw  me  in  such  a  rage  before 
—  a  most  devouring  rage  ! 

Abs.    I  will,  I  will. 

Acres.    Remember,  Jack  —  a  determined  dog  ! 

Abs.   Ay,  ay,  Fighting  Bob  !         [Exeunt  severally. 


72  SHERIDAN'S   COMEDIES. 

SCENE  II.  —  MRS.  MALAPROP'S  Lodgings. 
MRS.  MALAPROP  and  LYDIA. 

Mrs.  Mai.  Why,  thou  perverse  one  !  —  tell  me 
what  you  can  object  to  him  ?  Is  n't  he  a  handsome 
man?  —  tell  me  that.  A  genteel  man?  a  pretty 
figure  of  a  man  ? 

Lyd.  [Aside.']  She  little  thinks  whom  she  is  prais- 
ing !  —  [Aloud J\  So  is  Beverley,  ma'am. 

Mrs.  Mai.  No  caparisons,  miss,  if  you  please. 
Caparisons  don't  become  a  young  woman.  No! 
Captain  Absolute  is  indeed  a  fine  gentleman  ! 

Lyd.   Ay,  the  Captain  Absolute  jw/  have  seen. 

[Aside. 

Mrs.  Mai.  Then  he  's  so  well  bred  ;  —  so  full  of 
alacrity,  and  adulation  !  —  and  has  so  much  to  say  for 
himself  :  —  in  such  good  language  too  !  —  His  physi- 
ognomy so  grammatical !  —  Then  his  presence  is  so 
noble!  —  I  protest,  when  I  saw  him,  I  thought  of 
what  Hamlet  says  in  the  play  :  —  "  Hesperian  curls 
—  the  front  of  Job  himself! — •  An  eye,  like  March, 
to  threaten  at  command!  —  A  station,  like  Harry 
Mercury,  new  — • "  Something  about  kissing  —  on  a 
hill  —  however,  the  similitude  struck  me  directly. 

Lyd.  How  enraged  she  '11  be  presently,  when  she 
discovers  her  mistake  !  [Aside. 

Enter  SERVANT. 

Serv.  Sir  Anthony  and  Captain  Absolute  are  be- 
low, ma'am. 

Mrs.  Mai.  Show  them  up  here.  —  [Exit  SER- 
VANT.] Now,  Lydia,  I  insist  on  your  behaving  as 


THE  RIVALS.  73 

becomes  a  young  woman.     Show  your  good  breed- 
ing, at  least,  though  you  have  forgot  your  duty. 

Lyd.  Madam,  I  have  told  you  my  resolution !  — 
I  shall  not  only  give  him  no  encouragement,  but  I 
won't  even  speak  to  or  look  at  him. 

\Flings  herself  into  a  chair,  with  her  face  from 
the  door. 

Enter  SIR  ANTHONY  ABSOLUTE  and  CAPTAIN 
ABSOLUTE. 

Sir  Anth.  Here  we  are,  Mrs.  Malaprop  ;  come  to 
mitigate  the  frowns  of  unrelenting  beauty,  —  arid 
difficulty  enough  I  had  to  bring  this  fellow.  —  I  don't 
know  what 's  the  matter  ;  but  if  I  had  not  held  him 
by  force,  he  'd  have  given  me  the  slip. 

Mrs.  Mai.  You  have  infinite  trouble,  Sir  Anthony, 
in  the  affair.  I  am  ashamed  for  the  cause  !  —  [Aside 
to  LYDIA.]  Lydia,  Lydia,  rise,  I  beseech  you  !  —  pay 
your  respects ! 

Sir  Anth.  I  hope,  madam,  that  Miss  Languish  has 
reflected  on  the  worth  of  this  gentleman,  and  the 
regard  due  to  her  aunt's  choice  and  my  alliance.  — 
[Aside  to  CAPTAIN  ABSOLUTE.]  Now,  Jack,  speak  to 
her. 

Abs.    [Aside.]     What    the    devil   .shall    I    do  ! - 
\Aside  to  SIR  ANTHONY.]     You  see,  sir,  she  won't 
even  look  at  me  whilst  you  are  here.  —  I  knew  she 
wouldn't!  —  I  told  you  so.  —  Let  me  entreat  you, 
sir,  to  leave  us  together ! 

[Seems  to  expostulate  with  his  father. 

Lyd.  [Aside. 1  I  wonder  I  ha'  n't  heard  my  aunt 
exclaim  yet !  sure  she  can't  have  looked  at  him  !  — 
perhaps  their  regimentals  are  alike,  and  she  is  some- 
thing blind. 

Sir  Anth.    I  say,  sir,  I  won't  stir  a  foot  yet ! 


74  SHERIDAN'S  COMEDIES. 

Mrs.  Mai.  I  am  sorry  to  say,  Sir  Anthony,  that 
my  affluence  over  my  niece  is  very  small.  —  [Aside  to 
LYDIA.]  Turn  round,  Lydia  :  I  blush  for  you  ! 

Sir  Anth.  May  I  not  flatter  myself  that  Miss 
Languish  will  assign  what  cause  of  dislike  she  can 
have  to  my  son  !  —  [Aside  to  CAPTAIN  ABSOLUTE.] 
Why  don't  you  begin,  Jack  ?  —  Speak,  you  puppy  — 
speak. 

Mrs.  Mai.  It  is  impossible,  Sir  Anthony,  she  can 
have  any.  She  will  not  say  she  has.  —  [Aside  to 
LYDIA.]  Answer,  hussy  !  why  don't  you  answer  ? 

Sir  Anth.  Then,  madam,  I  trust  that  a  childish 
and  hasty  predilection  will  be  no  bar  to  Jack's  hap- 
piness. —  [Aside  to  CAPTAIN  ABSOLUTE.]  —  Zounds  ! 
sirrah  !  why  don't  you  speak  ! 

Lyd.  [Aside.']  I  think  my  lover  seems  as  little  in- 
clined to  conversation  as  myself.  —  How  strangely 
blind  my  aunt  must  be  ! 

Abs.  Hem  !  hem  !  madam  —  hem  1  —  [Attempts  to 
speak,  then  returns  to  SIR  ANTHONY.]  Faith  !  sir,  I 
am  so  confounded  !  —  and  —  so  —  so  —  confused  ! 

—  I  told  you  I  should  be  so,  sir  —  I  knew  it.  —  The 

—  the — tremor  of  my  passion  entirely  takes  away 
my  presence  of  mind. 

Sir  Anth.  But  it  don't  take  away  your  voice,  fool, 
does  it  ?  —  Go  up,  and  speak  to  her  directly  ! 

[CAPTAIN  ABSOLUTE  makes  signs  to  MRS.  MALA- 
PROP  to  leave  them  together. 

Mrs.  Mai.  Sir  Anthony,  shall  we  leave  them  to- 
gether ?  —  [Aside  to  LYDIA.]  Ah  !  you  stubborn  little 
vixen ! 

Sir  Anth.  Not  yet,  ma'am,  not  yet !  —  [Aside  to 
CAPTAIN  ABSOLUTE.]  What  the  devil  are  you  at? 
unlock  your  jaws,  sirrah,  or 

Abs.    [Aside.~\    Now  Heaven  send  she  may  be  too 


THE  RIVALS.  75 

sullen  to  look  round  !  —  I  must  disguise  my  voice.  — 
[Draws  near  LYDIA,  and  speaks  in  a  low  hoarse  tone^\ 
Will  not  Miss  Languish  lend  an  ear  to  the  mild 
accents  of  true  love  ?  Will  not 

Sir  Anth.  What  the  devil  ails  the  fellow  ?  Why 
don't  you  speak  out?  —  not  stand  croaking  like  a 
frog  in  a  quinsy ! 

Abs.  The  —  the  —  excess  of  my  awe,  and  my  — 
my  —  my  modesty,  quite  choke  me  ! 

Sir  Anth.  Ah  !  your  modesty  again  !  —  I  '11  tell  you 
what,  Jack ;  if  you  don't  speak  out  directly,  and 
glibly  too,  I  shall  be  in  such  a  rage !  —  Mrs.  Mala- 
prop,  I  wish  the  lady  would  favour  us  with  something 
more  than  a  side-front. 

[MRS.  MALA  PROP  seems  to  chide  LYDIA. 

Abs.  [Aside.']  So  all  will  out,  I  see  !  —  [Goes  up 
to  LYDIA,  speaks  softly '.]  Be  not  surprised,  my  Lydia, 
suppress  all  surprise  at  present. 

Lyd.  [AsideJ]  Heavens !  't  is  Beverley's  voice  ! 
Sure  he  can't  have  imposed  on  Sir  Anthony  too !  — 
[Looks  round  by  degrees,  then  starts  up.~}  Is  this 
possible  !  —  my  Beverley  !  —  how  can  this  be  ?  —  my 
Beverley  ? 

Abs.    Ah  !  't  is  all  over.  [Aside. 

Sir  Anth.  Beverley  !  —  the  devil  —  Beverley  !  — 
What  can  the  girl  mean?  —  This  is  my  son,  Jack 
Absolute. 

Mrs.  Mai.  For  shame,  hussy !  for  shame !  your 
head  runs  so  on  that  fellow,  that  you  have  him  al- 
ways in  your  eyes  I  —  beg  Captain  Absolute's  pardon 
directly. 

Lyd.  I  see  no  Captain  Absolute,  but  my  loved 
Beverley ! 

Sir  Anth.  Zounds  !  the  girl 's  mad  !  —  her  brain  's 
turned  by  reading. 


76  SHERIDAN'S   COMEDIES. 

Mrs.  Mai.  O'  my  conscience,  I  believe  so!  — 
What  do  you  mean  by  Beverley,  hussy  ?  —  You  saw 
Captain  Absolute  before  to-day;  there  he  is  —  your 
husband  that  shall  be. 

Lyd.  With  all  my  soul,  ma'am  —  when  I  refuse 
my  Beverley 

Sir  Anth.  Oh  !  she  's  as  mad  as  Bedlam  !  —  or  has 
this  fellow  been  playing  us  a  rogue's  trick  !  —  Come 
here,  sirrah,  who  the  devil  are  you  ? 

Abs.  Faith,  sir,  I  am  not  quite  clear  myself ;  but 
I  '11  endeavour  to  recollect. 

Sir  Anth.  Are  you  my  son  or  not  ?  —  answer  for 
your  mother,  you  dog,  if  you  won't  for  me. 

Mrs.  Mai.  Ay,  sir,  who  are  you  ?  Oh,  mercy !  I 
begin  to  suspect !  — 

Abs.  \AsideI\  Ye  powers  of  Impudence,  befriend 
me!  —  [AloudJ]  Sir  Anthony,  most  assuredly  I  am 
your  wife's  son ;  and  that  I  sincerely  believe  myself 
to  be  yours  also,  I  hope  my  duty  has  always  shown. 

—  Mrs.  Malaprop,  I    am  your    most  respectful  ad- 
mirer, and  shall  be  proud  to  add  affectionate  nephew. 

—  I  need  not  tell  my  Lydia  that  she  sees  her  faithful 
Beverley,  who,  knowing  the    singular  generosity  of 
her  temper,  assumed  that  name  and  station,  which 
has   proved  a  test  of   the   most   disinterested  love, 
which  he  now  hopes   to  enjoy  in  a  more   elevated 
character. 

Lyd.  So  !  —  there  will  be  no  elopement  after  all ! 

[Sullenly. 

Sir  Anth.  Upon  my  soul,  Jack,  thou  art  a  very 
impudent  fellow !  to  do  you  justice,  I  think  I  never 
saw  a  piece  of  more  consummate  assurance  ! 

Abs.  Oh,  you  flatter  me,  sir  —  you  compliment  — 
't  is  my  modesty,  you  know,  sir  —  my  modesty,  that 
has  stood  in  my  way. 


THE  RIVALS.  77 

Sir  Anth.  Well,  I  am  glad  you  are  not  the  dull, 
insensible  varlet  you  pretended  to  be,  however!  — 
I  'in  glad  you  have  made  a  fool  of  your  father,  you 
dog  —  I  am.  —  So  this  was  ywt  penitence  ^  your  duty 
and  obedience  ! —  I  thought  it  was  damned  sudden  !  — 
You  never  heard  their  names  before,  not  you  !  —  what 
the  LANGUISHES  of  Worcestershire,  hey  ?  —  if  you 
could  please  me  in  the  affair  it  was  all  you  desired ! — 
Ah  !  you  dissembling  villain  !  —  What !  —  ^Pointing 
to  LYDIA.]  she  squints,  don't  she?  —  a  little  red-haired 
girl ! — hey?  —  Why,  you  hypocritical  young  rascal ! 
-  I  wonder  you  an't  ashamed  to  hold  up  your  head  ! 

Abs.  'T  is  with  difficulty,  sir.  —  I  am  confused  — 
very  much  confused,  as  you  must  perceive. 

Mrs.  Mai.  O  Lud  1  Sir  Anthony!  —  a  new  light 
breaks  in  upon  me  !  —  hey  !  —  how  !  what !  captain, 
did  you  write  the  letters  then?  —  What  —  am  I  to 
thank  you  for  the  elegant  compilation  of  an  old 
weather-beaten  she-dragon  —  hey  !  —  Oh,  mercy  !  — 
was  it  you  that  reflected  on  my  parts  of  speech  ? 

Abs.  Dear  sir !  my  modesty  will  be  overpowered 
at  last,  if  you  don't  assist  me —  I  shall  certainly  not 
be  able  to  stand  it ! 

Sir  Anth.  Come,  come,  Mrs.  Malaprop,  we  must 
forget  and  forgive  ;  —  odds  life  !  matters  have  taken 
so  clever  a  turn  all  of  a  sudden,  that  I  could  find  in 
my  heart  to  be  so  good-humoured !  and  so  gallant ! 
hey  !  Mrs.  Malaprop  ! 

Mrs.  Mai.  Well,  Sir  Anthony,  since  you  desire  it, 
we  will  not  anticipate  the  past!  — so  mind,  young 
people  —  our  retrospection  will  be  all  to  the  future. 

Sir  Anth.  Come,  we  must  leave  them  together ; 
Mrs.  Malaprop,  they  long  to  fly  into  each  other's 
arms,  I  warrant!  —  Jack  —  isn't  the  cheek  as  I 
said,  hey  ?  —  and  the  eye,  you  rogue  !  —  and  the  lip 


78  SHERIDAN'S   COMEDIES. 

—  hey?     Come,  Mrs.    Malaprop,  we'll  not  disturb 
their  tenderness  —  theirs  is  the  time  of  life  for  hap- 
piness !  —  Youth  's  the  season  made  for  joy  —  [Sings. ~\ 

—  hey!  —  Odds  life!  I'm  in  such  spirits,  —  I  don't 
know  what  I  could  not  do  !  —  Permit  me,  ma'am  — 
[Gives  his  hand  to  MRS.  MALAPROP.]     [Sings. ~\    Tol- 
de-rol — 'gad,  I  should  like  to  have  a  little  fooling 
myself  —  Tol-de-rol !  de-rol. 

[Exit,  singing  and  handing  MRS.  MALAPROP. — 

LYDIA  sits  sullenly  in  her  chair. 
Abs.    [Aside.~\     So   much    thought   bodes   me   no 
good.  —  [Aloud.']     So  grave,  Lydia  ! 
Lyd.    Sir! 
Abs.    [Aside]     So !  —  egad !  I  thought  as  much  ! 

—  that    damned    monosyllable    has    froze    me !  — 
[Aloud. ~]     What,  Lydia,  now  that  we  are  as  happy 
in  our  friends'  consent,  as  in  our  mutual  vows  — 

Lyd.    Friends'  consent  indeed  !  [Peevishly. 

Abs.  Come,  come,  we  must  lay  aside  some  of  our 
romance  —  a  little  wealth  and  comfort  may  be  en- 
dured after  all.  And  for  your  fortune,  the  lawyers 
shall  make  such  settlements  as 

Lyd.   Lawyers !     I  hate  lawyers  ! 

Abs.  Nay,  then,  we  will  not  wait  for  their  lingering 
forms,  but  instantly  procure  the  licence,  and 

Lyd.    The  licence! —  I  hate  licence  ! 

Abs.  Oh,  my  love!  be  not  so  unkind! — thus  let 
me  entreat [Kneeling. 

Lyd.  Psha  !  —  what  signifies  kneeling,  when  you 
know  I  must  have  you  ? 

Abs.  [Rising. ~\  Nay,  madam,  there  shall  be  no 
constraint  upon  your  inclinations,  I  promise  you.  — 
If  I  have  lost  your  heart  —  I  resign  the  rest  — 
[Aside.]  'Gad,  I  must  try  what  a  little  spirit  will  do. 

Lyd.    [Rising.]     Then,  sir,   let   me   tell  you,  the 


THE  RIVALS.  79 

interest  you  had  there  was  acquired  by  a  mean, 
unmanly  imposition,  and  deserves  the  punishment  of 
fraud.  —  What,  you  have  been  treating  me  like  a 
child  !  —  humouring  my  romance !  and  laughing,  I 
suppose,  at  your  success  ! 

Abs.  You  wrong  me,  Lydia,  you  wrong  me  —  only 
hear 

Lyd.  So,  while  /  fondly  imagined  we  were  de- 
ceiving my  relations,  and  flattered  myself  that  I 
should  outwit  and  incense  them  all  —  behold  my 
hopes  are  to  be  crushed  at  once,  by  my.  aunt's  con- 
sent and  approbation  —  and  /  am  myself  the  only 
dupe  at  last !  —  [  Walking  about  in  a  heat.~\  But  here, 
sir,  here  is  the  picture  —  Beverley's  picture  !  [taking 
a  miniature  from  her  bosoni\  which  I  have  worn, 
night  and  day,  in  spite  of  threats  and  entreaties !  — 
There,  sir,  [jlings  it  to  him]  and  be  assured  I  throw 
the  original  from  my  heart  as  easily. 

Abs.  Nay,  nay,  ma'am,  we  will  not  differ  as  to 
that.  —  Here,  [taking  out  a  picture~\  here  is  Miss 
Lydia  Languish. —  What  a  difference!  —  ay,  there  is 
the  heavenly  assenting  smile  that  first  gave  soul  and 
spirit  to  my  hopes  !  —  those  are  the  lips  which  sealed 
a  vow,  as  yet  scarce  dry  in  Cupid's  calendar !  and 
there  the  half-resentful  blush,  that  would  have 
checked  the  ardour  of  my  thanks  !  —  Well,  all  that 's 
past !  —  all  over  indeed  !  —  There,  madam  —  in 
beauty,  that  copy  is  not  equal  to  you,  but  in  my 
mind  its  merit  over  the  original,  in  being  still  the 
same,  is  such  —  that  —  I  cannot  find  in  my  heart  to 
part  with  it.  {Puts  it  up  again. 

Lyd.  \_Softening.~]  'T  is  your  own  doing,  sir — I  — 
I  —  I  suppose  you  are  perfectly  satisfied. 

Abs.  Oh,  most  certainly  —  sure,  now,  this  is  much 
better  than  being  in  love  !  —  ha !  ha  !  ha  !  —  there  's 


80  SHERIDAN'S   COMEDIES. 

some  spirit  in  this  ! — What  signifies  breaking  some 
scores  of  solemn  promises :  —  all  that 's  of  no  conse- 
quence, you  know.  —  To  be  sure  people  will  say  that 
miss  don't  know  her  own  mind — but  never  mind 
that !  Or,  perhaps,  they  may  be  ill-natured  enough 
to  hint  that  the  gentleman  grew  tired  of  the  lady  and 
forsook  her  —  but  don't  let  that  fret  you. 
Lyd.  There  is  no  bearing  his  insolence. 

\_Bursts  into  tears. 

Reenter  MRS.  MALAPROP  and  SIR  ANTHONY 
ABSOLUTE. 

Mrs.  Mai.  [Entering^  Come,  we  must  interrupt 
your  billing  and  cooing  awhile. 

Lyd.  This  is  worse  than  your  treachery  and  deceit, 
you  base  ingrate  !  [Sobbing. 

Sir  Anth.    What  the    devil  's  the  matter  now !  — 
Zounds.     Mrs.  Malaprop,  this  is  the  oddest  billing 
and  cooing  I  ever  heard  !  —  but  what  the  deuce  is  the 
meaning  of  it  ?  —  I  am  quite  astonished  ! 

Abs.    Ask  the  lady,  sir. 

Mrs.  Mai.  Oh,  mercy  !  —  I'm  quite  analyzed,  for 
my  part !  —  Why,  Lydia,  what  is  the  reason  of 
this? 

Lyd.    Ask  the  gentleman,  ma'am. 

Sir  Anth,  Zounds  !  I  shall  be  in  a  frenzy  !  —  Why, 
Jack,  you  are  not  come  out  to  be  any  one  else,  are 
you  ? 

Mrs.  Mai.  Ay,  sir,  there 's  no  more  trick,  is 
there  ?  —  you  are  not  like  Cerberus,  three  gentlemen 
at  once,  are  you  ? 

Abs'.  You  '11  not  let  me  speak  —  I  say  the  lady  can 
account  for  this  much  better  than  I  can. 

Lyd.  Ma'am,  you  once  commanded  me  never  to 
think  of  Beverley  again  —  there  is  the  man  —  I  now 


THE  RIVALS.  8 1 

obey  you :   for,  from  this  moment,  I  renounce  him 
forever.  [Exit  LYDIA. 

Mrs.  Mai.  Oh,  mercy  !  and  miracles  !  what  a  turn 
here  is  —  why  sure,  captain,  you  have  n't  behaved 
disrespectfully  to  my  niece  ? 

Sir  Anth.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  — ha!  ha!  ha!  — now  I 
see  it.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  —  now  I  see  it  —  you  have 
been  too  lively,  Jack. 

Abs.    Nay,  sir,  upon  my  word 

Sir  Anth.  Come,  no  lying,  Jack  —  I  'm  sure  't  was 
so. 

Mrs.  Mai.  O  Lud  !  Sir  Anthony!  —  Oh,  fie,  cap- 
tain ! 

Abs.   Upon  my  soul,  ma'am 

Sir  Anth.  Come,  no  excuses,  Jack ;  why,  your 
father,  you  rogue,  was  so  before  you :  —  the  blood  of 
the  Absolutes  was  always  impatient.  —  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! 
poor  little  Lydia !  why,  you  Ve  frightened  her,  you 
dog,  you  have. 

Abs.    By  all  that 's  good,  sir 

Sir  Anth.  Zounds  !  say  no  more,  I  tell  you  —  Mrs. 
Malaprop  shall  make  your  peace.  —  You  must  make 
his  peace,  Mrs.  Malaprop: — you  must  tell  her  'tis 
Jack's  way  —  tell  her  'tis  all  our  ways  —  it  runs  in 
the  blood  of  our  family  !  —  Come  away,  Jack  —  Ha  ! 
ha  !  ha  !  Mrs.  Malaprop  —  a  young  villain  ! 

[Pushes  him  out. 

Mrs.  MaL    O  !  Sir  Anthony !  —  Oh,  fie,  captain  ! 

[Exeunt  severally. 


82  SHERIDAN'S   COMEDIES. 

SCENE  III.  —  The  North  Parade. 
Enter  SIR  Lucius  O TRIGGER. 

Sir  Luc.  I  wonder  where  this  Captain  Absolute 
hides  himself !  Upon  my  conscience  !  these  officers 
are  always  in  one's  way  in  love  affairs :  —  I  remem- 
ber I  might  have  married  Lady  Dorothy  Carmine,  if 
it  had  not  been  for  a  little  rogue  of  a  major,  who  ran 
away  with  her  before  she  could  get  a  sight  of  me ! 
And  I  wonder  too  what  it  is  the  ladies  can  see  in  them 
to  be  so  fond  of  them  —  unless  it  be  a  touch  of  the 
old  serpent  in  'em,  that  makes  the  little  creatures  be 
caught,  like  vipers,  with  a  bit  of  red  cloth.  Ha  !  is  n't 
this  the  captain  coming?  —  faith  it  is!  —  There  is 
a  probability  of  succeeding  about  that  fellow  that 
is  mighty  provoking !  Who  the  devil  is  he  talking 
to  ?  \_Steps  aside. 

Enter  CAPTAIN  ABSOLUTE. 

Abs.  \_Aside.~]  To  what  fine  purpose  I  have  been 
plotting !  a  noble  reward  for  all  my  schemes,  upon 
my  soul !  —  a  little  gypsy  !  —  I  did  not  think  her 
romance  could  have  made  her  so  damned  absurd 
either.  'Sdeath,  I  never  was  in  a  worse  humour  in 
my  life  !  —  I  could  cut  my  own  throat,  or  any  other 
person's,  with  the  greatest  pleasure  in  the  world  ! 

Sir  Luc.  Oh,  faith !  I  'm  in  the  luck  of  it.  I 
never  could  have  found  him  in  a  sweeter  temper  for 
my  purpose  —  to  be  sure  I  'm  just  come  in  the  nick ! 
Now  to  enter  into  conversation  with  him,  and  so 
quarrel  genteelly.  —  \_Goes  up  to  CAPTAIN  ABSOLUTE.] 
—  With  regard  to  that  matter,  captain,  I  must  beg 
leave  to  differ  in  opinion  with  you. 


THE  RIVALS.  83 

Abs.  Upon  my  word,  then,  you  must  be  a  very 
subtle  disputant :  —  because,  sir,  I  happened  just 
then  to  be  giving  no  opinion  at  all. 

Sir  Luc.  That 's  no  reason.  For,  give  me  leave  to 
tell  you,  a  man  may  think  an  untruth  as  well  as  speak 
one. 

Abs.  Very  true,  sir  ;  but  if  a  man  never  utters  his 
thoughts,  I  should  think  they  might  stand  a  chance 
of  escaping  controversy. 

Sir  Luc.  Then,  sir,  you  differ  in  opinion  with  me, 
which  amounts  to  the  same  thing. 

Abs.  Hark  'ee,  Sir  Lucius ;  if  I  had  not  before 
known  you  to  be  a  gentleman,  upon  my  soul,  I  should 
not  have  discovered  it  at  this  interview  :  for  what  you 
can  drive  at,  unless  you  mean  to  quarrel  with  me,  I 
cannot  conceive. 

Sir  Luc.  I  humbly  thank  you,  sir,  for  the  quickness 
of  your  apprehension .  —  \_BowingI\  You  have  named 
the  very  thing  I  would  be  at. 

Abs.  Very  well,  sir  ;  I  shall  certainly  not  balk 
your  inclinations.  —  But  I  should  be  glad  you  would 
please  to  explain  your  motives. 

Sir  Luc.  Pray  sir,  be  easy  ;  —  the  quarrel  is  a  very, 
pretty  quarrel  as  it  stands  ;  —  we  should  only  spoil  it 
by  trying  to  explain  it.  —  However,  your  memory  is 
very  short,  or  you  could  not  have  forgot  an  affront 
you  passed  on  me  within  this  week.  —  So,  no  more, 
but  name  your  time  and  place. 

Abs.  Well,  sir,  since  you  are  so  bent  on  it,  the 
sooner  the  better  ;  let  it  be  this  evening  —  here  by  the 
Spring  Gardens.  —  We  shall  scarcely  be  interrupted. 

Sir  Luc.  Faith !  that  same  interruption  in  affairs 
of  this  nature  shows  very  great  ill-breeding.  —  I  don't 
know  what 's  the  reason,  but  in  England,  if  a  thing  of 
this  kind  gets  wind,  people  make  such  a  pother,  that 


84  SHERIDAN'S   COMEDIES. 

a  gentleman  can  never  fight  in  peace  and  quietness. 
However,  if  it's  the  same  to  you,  captain,  I  should 
take  it  as  a  particular  kindness  if  you  'd  let  us  meet  in 
King's-Mead-Fields,  as  a  little  business  will  call  me 
there  about  six  o'clock,  and  I  may  despatch  both 
matters  at  once. 

Abs.  T  is  the  same  to  me  exactly.  —  A  little  after 
six,  then,  we  will  discuss  this  matter  more  seriously. 

Sir  Luc.  If  you  please,  sir ;  there  will  be  very 
pretty  small-sword  light,  though  it  won't  do  for  a 
long  shot.  —  So  that  matter  's  settled,  and  my  mind  's 
at  ease.  [Exit  SIR  Lucius. 

Enter  FAULKLAND,  meeting  ABSOLUTE. 

Abs.  Well  met !  I  was  going  to  look  for  you.  —  O 
Faulkland !  all  the  demons  of  spite  and  disappoint- 
ment have  conspired  against  me !  I  'm  so  vexed,  that 
if  I  had  not  the  prospect  of  a  resource  in  being 
knocked  o'  the  head  by-and-by,  I  should  scarce  have 
spirits  to  tell  you  the  cause. 

Faulk.  What  can  you  mean  ? — Has  Lydia  changed 
her  mind?  —  I  should  have  thought  her  duty  and 
inclination  would  now  have  pointed  to  the  same 
object. 

Abs.  Ay,  just  as  the  eyes  do  of  a  person  who 
squints  :  when  her  love-eye  was  fixed  on  me,  t'  other, 
her  eye  of  duty,  was  finely  obliqued :  but  when  duty 
bid  her  point  that  the  same  way,  off  t'  other  turned 
on  a  swivel,  and  secured  its  retreat  with  a  frown  ! 

Faulk.    But  what 's  the  resource  you 

Abs.  Oh,  -to  wind  up  the  whole,  a  good-natured 
Irishman  here  has  —  [Mimicking  SIR  Lucius.]  — 
begged  leave  to  have  the  pleasure  of  cutting  my 
throat:  and  I  mean  to  indulge  him  —  that's  all. 


THE  RIVALS.  85 

Faulk.    Prithee,  be  serious  ! 

Abs.  'T  is  fact,  upon  my  soul !  Sir  Lucius 
O 'Trigger  —  you  know  him  by  sight  —  for  some 
affront,  —  which  I  am  sure  I  never  intended,  has 
obliged  me  to  meet  him  this  evening  at  six  o'clock : 
't  is  on  that  account  I  wished  to  see  you  ;  —  you  must 
go  with  me. 

Faulk.  Nay,  there  must  be  some  mistake,  sure. 
Sir  Lucius  shall  explain  himself,  and  I  dare  say 
matters  may  be  accommodated.  But  this  evening  did 
you  say  ?  I  wish  it  had  been  any  other  time. 

Abs.  Why  ?  there  will  be  light  enough  :  there  will 
(as  Sir  Lucius  says),  "  be  very  pretty  small-sword  light, 
though  it  will  not  do  for  a  long  shot."  Confound  his 
long  shots  ! 

Faulk.  But  I  am  myself  a  good  deal  ruffled  by  a 
difference  I  have  had  with  Julia  —  my  vile  torment- 
ing temper  has  made  me  treat  her  so  cruelly,  that  I 
shall  not  be  myself  till  we  are  reconciled. 

Abs.  By  heavens !  Faulkland,  you  don't  deserve 
her! 

Enter  SERVANT,  gives  FAULKLAND  a  letter,  and  exit. 

Faulk.    O  Jack!    this  is  from  Julia.     I  dread    to 
open  it !     I  fear  it  may  be  to  take  a  last  leave  1  — 
perhaps  to  bid  me  return  her  letters,  and  restore  — 
oh,  how  I  suffer  for  my  folly ! 

Abs.  Here,  let  me  see.  —  [Takes  the  letter  and  opens 
it.]  Ay,  a  final  sentence,  indeed  !  —  't  is  all  over  with 
you,  faith  ! 

Faulk.    Nay,  Jack,  don't  keep  me  in  suspense  ! 

Abs.  Hear  then.  —  [Reads.]  As  I  am  convinced 
that  my  dear  Faulkland 's  own  reflections  have  already 
upbraided  him  for  his  last  unkindness  to  me,  I  will  not 


86  SHERIDAN'S   COMEDIES. 

add  a  word  on  the  subject.  I  wish  to  speak  with  you 
as  soon  as  possible.  Yours  ever  and  truly,  JULIA. 
There  's  stubbornness  and  resentment  for  you !  — 
[Gives  him  the  letter •.]  Why,  man,  you  don't  seem  one 
whit  the  happier  at  this  ! 

Faitlk.    Oh,  yes,  I  am  :  but  —  but 

Abs.  Confound  your  buts !  you  never  hear  any- 
thing that  would  make  another  man  bless  himself, 
but  you  immediately  damn  it  with  a  but ! 

Faulk.  Now,  Jack,  as  you  are  my  friend,  own 
honestly  —  don't  you  think  there  is  something  for- 
ward, something  indelicate,  in  this  haste  to  forgive  ? 
Women  should  never  sue  for  reconciliation :  that 
should  always  come  from  us.  They  should  retain 
their  coldness  till  wooed  to  kindness  ;  and*  their  par- 
don, like  their  love,  should  "  not  unsought  be  won." 

Abs.  I  have  not  patience  to  listen  to  you  !  thou  'rt 
incorrigible  !  so  say  no  more  on  the  subject.  I  must 
go  to  settle  a  few  matters.  Let  me  see  you  before  six, 
remember,  at  my  lodgings.  A  poor  industrious  devil 
like  me,  who  have  toiled,  and  drudged,  and  plotted 
to  gain  my  ends,  and  am  at  last  disappointed  by  other 
people's  folly,  may  in  pity  be  allowed  to  swear  and 
grumble  a  little ;  but  a  captious  sceptic  in  love,  a 
slave  to  fretfulness  and  whim,  who  has  no  difficulties 
but  of  his  own  creating,  is  a  subject  more  fit  for 
ridicule  than  compassion  !  [Exit  ABSOLUTE. 

Faulk.  I  feel  his  reproaches;  yet  I  would  not 
change  this  too  exquisite  nicety  for  the  gross  con- 
tent with  which  he  tramples  on  the  thorns  of  love  ! 
—  His  engaging  me  in  this  duel  has  started  an  idea 
in  my  head,  which  I  will  instantly  pursue.  I  '11  use 
it  as  the  touchstone  of  Julia's  sincerity  and  disinter- 
estedness. If  her  love  prove  pure  and  sterling  ore, 
my  name  will  rest  on  it  with  honour ;  and  once  I  Ve 


THE  RIVALS.  87 

stamped  it  there,  I  lay  aside  my  doubts  forever !  But 
if  the  dross  of  selfishness,  the  alloy  of  pride,  pre- 
dominate, 'twill  be  best  to  leave  her  as  a  toy  for 
some  less  cautious  fool  to  sigh  for ! 

\Exit  FAULKLAND. 


88  SHERIDAN'S   COMEDIES. 


ACT   V. 

SCENE  I.  —  JULIA'S  Dressing-room. 
JULIA  discovered  alone. 

JuL  How  this  message  has  alarmed  me  !  what 
dreadful  accident  can  he  mean  ?  why  such  charge 
to  be  alone  ?  —  O  Faulkland  !  —  how  many  unhappy 
moments  —  how  many  tears  have  you  cost  me. 

Enter  FAULKLAND. 

JuL  What  means  this  ?  —  why  this  caution,  Faulk- 
land ? 

Faulk.  Alas  !  Julia,  I  am  come  to  take  a  long 
farewell. 

////.    Heavens  !  what  do  you  mean  ? 

Faulk.  You  see  before  you  a  wretch  whose  life  is 
forfeited.  Nay,  start  not!  —  the  infirmity  of  my 
temper  has  drawn  all  this  misery  on  me.  I  left  you 
fretful  and  passionate  —  an  untoward  accident  drew 
me  into  a  quarrel  —  the  event  is,  that  I  must  fly  this 
\  kingdom  instantly.  O  Julia,  had  I  been  so  fortunate 
as  to  have  called  you  mine  entirely,  before  this  mis- 
chance had  fallen  on  me,  I  should  not  so  deeply 
dread  my  banishment  ! 

JuL  My  soul  is  oppressed  with  sorrow  at  the  nature 
of  your  misfortune  :  had  these  adverse  circumstances 
arisen  from  a  less  fatal  cause,  I  should  have  felt 
strong  comfort  in  the  thought  that  I  could  now  chase 
from  your  bosom  every  doubt  of  the  warm  sincerity 
of  my  love.  My  heart  has  long  known  no  other 


THE  RIVALS.  89 

guardian  —  I  now  entrust  my  person  to  your  honour 
-  we  will  fly  together.  When  safe  from  pursuit,  my 
father's  will  may  be  fulfilled  —  and  I  receive  a  legal 
claim  to  be  the  partner  of  your  sorrows  and  tenderest 
comforter.  Then  on  the  bosom  of  your  wedded 
Julia,  you  may  lull  your  keen  regret  to  slumbering ; 
while  virtuous  love,  with  a  cherub's  hand,  shall 
smooth  the  brow  of  upbraiding  thought,  and  pluck 
the  thorn  from  compunction. 

'  Faulk.  O  Julia  !  I  am  bankrupt  in  gratitude  !  but 
the  time  is  so  pressing,  it  calls  on  you  for  so  hasty 
a  resolution.  —  Would  you  not  wish  some  hours  to 
weigh  the  advantages  you  forego,  and  what  little 
compensation  poor  Faulkland  can  make  you  beside 
his  solitary  love  ? 

////.  I  ask  not  a  moment.  No,  Faulkland,  I  have 
loved  you  for  yourself :  and  if  I  now,  more  than 
ever,  prize  the  solemn  engagement  which  so  long  has 
pledged  us  to  each  other,  it  is  because  it  leaves  no 
room  for  hard  aspersions  on  my  fame,  and  puts  the 
seal  of  duty  to  an  act  of  love.  But  let  us  not  linger. 
Perhaps  this  delay 

Faulk.  'T  will  be  better  I  should  not  venture  out 
again  till  dark.  Yet  am  I  grieved  to  think  what 
numberless  distresses  will  press  heavy  on  your  gentle 
disposition ! 

////.  Perhaps  your  fortune  maybe  forfeited  by  this 
unhappy  act.  —  I  know  not  whether  't  is  so ;  but 
sure  that  alone  can  never  make  us  unhappy.  The 
little  I  have  will  be  sufficient  to  support  us  ;  and 
exile  never  should  be  splendid. 

Faulk.  Ay,  but  in  such  an  abject  state  of  life,  my 
wounded  pride  perhaps  may  increase  the  natural  fret- 
fulness  of  my  temper,  till  I  become  a  rude,  morose 
companion,  beyond  your  patience  to  endure.  Per- 


90  SHERIDAN'S   COMEDIES. 

haps  the  recollection  of  a  deed  my  conscience  can- 
not justify  may  haunt  me  in  such  gloomy  and  unsocial 
fits,  that  I  shall  hate  the  tenderness  that  would  re- 
lieve me,  break  from  your  arms,  and  quarrel  with 
your  fondness  ! 

Jul.  If  your  thoughts  should  assume  so  unhappy 
a  bent,  you  will  the  more  want  some  mild  and  affec- 
tionate spirit  to  watch  over  and  console  you :  one 
who,  by  bearing  your  infirmities  with  gentleness  and 
resignation,  may  teach  you  so  to  bear  the  evils  of 
your  fortune. 

Faulk.  Julia,  I  have  proved  you  to  the  quick  !  and 
with  this  useless  device  I  throw  away  all  my  doubts. 
How  shall  I  plead  to  be  forgiven  this  last  unworthy 
effect  of  my  restless,  unsatisfied  disposition  ? 

Jul.  Has  no  such  disaster  happened  as  you  re- 
lated ? 

Faulk.  I  am  ashamed  to  own  that  it  was  pretended ; 
yet  in  pity,  Julia,  do  not  kill  me  with  resenting  a 
fault  which  never  can  be  repeated :  but  sealing,  this 
once,  my  pardon,  let  me  to-morrow,  in  the  face  of 
Heaven,  receive  my  future  guide  and  monitress,  and 
expiate  my  past  folly  by  years  of  tender  adoration. 

Jul.  Hold,  Faulkland  !  —  that  you  are  free  from  a 
crime,  which  I  before  feared  to  name,  Heaven  knows 
how  sincerely  I  rejoice  !  These  are  tears  of  thank- 
fulness for  that !  But  that  your  cruel  doubts  should 
have  urged  you  to  an  imposition  that  has  wrung  my 
heart  gives  me  now  a  pang  more  keen  than  I  can 
express ! 

Faulk.   By  Heavens  !  Julia 

Jul.  Yet  hear  me.  —  My  father  loved  you,  Faulk- 
land !  and  you  preserved  the  life  that  tender  parent 
gave  me  ;  in  his  presence  I  pledged  my  hand  —  joy- 
fully pledged  it  —  where  before  I  had  given  my 


THE  RIVALS.  91 

heart.  When,  soon  after,  I  lost  that  parent,  it  seemed 
to  me  that  Providence  had,  in  Faulkland,  shown  me 
whither  to  transfer,  without  a  pause,  my  grateful 
duty,  as  well  as  my  affection  :  hence  I  have  been  con- 
tent to  bear  from  you  what  pride  and  delicacy  would 
have  forbid  me  from  another.  I  will  not  upbraid 
you  by  repeating  how  you  have  trifled  with  my  sin- 
cerity - 


Faulk.    I  confess  it  all !  yet  hear  • 


////.  After  such  a  year  of  trial,  I  might  have  flat- 
tered myself  that  I  should  not  have  been  insulted 
with  a  new  probation  of  my  sincerity,  as  cruel  as 
unnecessary !  I  now  see  it  is  not  in  your  nature  to 
be  content  or  confident  in  love.  With  this  convic- 
tion —  I  never  will  be  yours.  While  I  had  hopes 
that  my  persevering  attention  and  unreproaching 
kindness  might  in  time  reform  your  temper,  I  should 
have  been  happy  to  have  gained  a  dearer  influence 
over  you ;  but  I  will  not  furnish  you  with  a  licensed 
power  to  keep  alive  an  incorrigible  fault  at  the  ex- 
pense of  one  who  never  would  contend  with  you. 

Faulk.  Nay,  but  Julia,  by  my  soul  and  honour,  if 
after  this 

JuL  But  one  word  more.  —  As  my  faith  has  once 
been  given  to  you,  I  never  will  barter  it  with  another. 
—  I  shall  pray  for  your  happiness  with  the  truest 
sincerity ;  and  the  dearest  blessing  I  can  ask  of 
Heaven  to  send  you  will  be  to  charm  you  from  that 
unhappy  temper  which  alone  has  prevented  the  per- 
formance of  our  solemn  engagement.  —  All  I  request 
of  you  is,  that  you  will  yourself  reflect  upon  this  in- 
firmity, and  when  you  number  up  the  many  true  de- 
lights it  has  deprived  you  of,  let  it  not  be  your  least 
regret,  that  it  lost  you  the  love  of  one  —  who  would 
have  followed  you  in  beggary  through  the  world ! 

[Exit. 


Q2  SHERIDAN'S   COMEDIES. 

Faulk.  She  's  gone  —  forever  !  —  There  was  an 
awful  resolution  in  her  manner,  that  riveted  me  to 
my  place.  —  O  fool !  —  dolt !  —  barbarian  !  Cursed 
as  I  am,  with  more  imperfections  than  my  fellow 
wretches,  kind  fortune  sent  a  heaven-gifted  cherub 
to  my  aid,  and,  like  a  ruffian,  I  have  driven  her  from 
my  side  !  —  I  must  now  haste  to  my  appointment. 
Well,  my  mind  is  tuned  for  such  a  scene.  I  shall 
wish  only  to  become  a  principal  in  it,  and  reverse  the 
tale  my  cursed  folly  put  me  upon  forging  here.  —  O 
Love !  —  tormentor !  —  fiend  !  —  whose  influence,  like 
the  moon's,  acting  on  men  of  dull  souls,  makes  idiots 
of  them,  but,  meeting  subtler  spirits,  betrays  their 
course  and  urges  sensibility  to  madness !  [Exit. 

Enter  LYDIA  and  MAID. 

Maid.  My  mistress,  ma'am,  I  know,  was  just 
here  now  —  perhaps  she  is  only  in  the  next  room. 

[Exit  MAID. 

Lyd.  Heigh-ho !  Though  he  has  used  me  so, 
this  fellow  runs  strangely  in  my  head.  I  believe 
one  lecture  from  my  grave  cousin  will  make  me 
recall  him.  \Reenter  JULIA.]  O  Julia,  I  am  come 
to  you  with  such  an  appetite  for  consolation.  — 
Lud !  child,  what 's  the  matter  with  you  ?  You  have 
been  crying  !  —  I  '11  be  hanged  if  that  Faulkland  has 
not  been  tormenting  you  ! 

Jul.    You  mistake  the  cause  of  my  uneasiness  !  — 
Something  has  flurried  me  a  little.      Nothing  that 
you  can  guess  at.  —  \AsideI\     I  would  not  accuse 
Faulkland  to  a  sister  ! 

Lyd.  Ah !  whatever  vexations  you  may  have,  I 
can  assure  you  mine  surpass  them.  You  know  who 
Beverley  proves  to  be  ? 

Jul.    I    will    now  own   to   you,   Lydia,    that   Mr. 


THE  RIVALS.  93 

Faulkland  had  before  informed  me  of  the  whole 
affair.  Had  young  Absolute  been  the  person  you 
took  him  for  I  should  not  have  accepted  your  confi- 
dence on  the  subject,  without  a  serious  endeavour  to 
counteract  your  caprice. 

Lyd.  So,  then,  I  see  I  have  been  deceived  by 
every  one !  But  I  don't  care  —  I  '11  never  have 
him. 

Jul.    Nay,  Lydia 

Lyd.  Why,  is  it  not  provoking  ?  when  I  thought 
we  were  coming  to  the  prettiest  distress  imaginable, 
to  find  myself  made  a  mere  Smithfield  bargain  of  at 
last !  There,  had  I  projected  one  of  the  most  senti- 
mental elopements !  —  so  becoming  a  disguise  !  —  so 
amiable  a  ladder  of  ropes  !  —  Conscious  moon  — 
four  horses  —  Scotch  parson  — with  such  surprise  to 
Mrs.  Malaprop  —  and  such  paragraphs  in  the  news- 
papers !  —  Oh,  I  shall  die  with  disappointment. 

////.    I  don't  wonder  at  it ! 

Lyd.  Now  —  sad  reverse  !  —  what  have  I  to  ex- 
pect, but,  after  a  deal  of  flimsy  preparations  with  a 
bishop's  license,  and  my  aunt's  blessing,  to  go  sim- 
pering up  to  the  altar ;  or  perhaps  be  cried  three 
times  in  a  country  church,  and  have  an  unmannerly 
fat  clerk  ask  the  consent  of  every  butcher  in  the 
parish  to  join  John  Absolute  and  Lydia  Languish, 
spinster !  Oh  that  I  should  live  to  hear  myself 
called  Spinster! 

Jul.    Melancholy  indeed ! 

Lyd.  How  mortifying,  to  remember  the  dear  de- 
licious shifts  I  used  to  be  put  to,  to  gain  half  a 
minute's  conversation  with  this  fellow  !  —  How  often 
have  I  stole  forth,  in  the  coldest  night  in  January, 
and  found  him  in  the  garden,  stuck  like  a  dripping 
statue !  There  would  he  kneel  to  me  in  the  snow, 


94  SHERIDAN'S   COMEDIES. 

and  sneeze  and  cough  so  pathetically !  he  shivering 
with  cold  and  I  with  apprehension  !  and  while  the 
freezing  blast  numbed  our  joints,  how  warmly  would 
he  press  me  to  pity  his  flame,  and  glow  with  mutual 
ardour  !  —  Ah,  Julia,  that  was  something  like  being 
in  love. 

JuL  If  I  were  in  spirits,  Lydia,  I  should  chide 
you  only  by  laughing  heartily  at  you ;  but  it  suits 
more  the  situation  of  my  mind,  at  present,  earnestly 
to  entreat  you  not  to  let  a  man,  who  loves  you  with 
sincerity,  suffer  that  unhappiness  from  your  caprice, 
which  I  know  too  well  caprice  can  inflict. 

Lyd.   O  Lud !  what  has  brought  my  aunt  here  ? 

Enter  MRS.  MALAPROP,  FAG,  and  DAVID. 

Mrs.  Mai.  So  !  so  !  here  's  fine  work  !  —  here  's 
fine  suicide,  parricide,  and  simulation,  going  on  in 
the  fields !  and  Sir  Anthony  not  to  be  found  to  pre- 
vent the  antistrophe  ! 

JuL  For  Heaven's  sake,  madam,  what 's  the  mean- 
ing of  this  ? 

Mrs.  Mai.  That  gentleman  can  tell  you  —  't  was 
he  enveloped  the  affair  to  me. 

Lyd.   Do,  sir,  will  you,  inform  us ?  \_To  FAG. 

Fag.  Ma'am,  I  should  hold  myself  very  deficient 
in  every  requisite  that  forms  the  man  of  breeding,  if 
I  delayed  a  moment  to  give  all  the  information  in 
my  power  to  a  lady  so  deeply  interested  in  the  affair 
as  you  are. 

Lyd.    But  quick !  quick,  sir  ! 

Fag.  True,  ma'am,  as  you  say,  one  should  be 
quick  in  divulging  matters  of  this  nature  ;  for  should 
we  be  tedious,  perhaps  while  we  are  flourishing  on 
the  subject,  two  or  three  lives  may  be  lost ! 


THE  RIVALS.  95 

Lyd.  O  patience !  —  Do,  ma'am,  for  Heaven's 
sake  !  tell  us  what  is  the  matter  ? 

Mrs.  Mai.  Why,  murder  's  the  matter  !  slaughter  's 
the  matter !  killing  's  the  matter  !  —  but  he  can  tell 
you  the  perpendiculars. 

Lyd.   Then,  prithee,  sir,  be  brief. 

Fag.  Why  then,  ma'am,  as  to  murder  —  I  cannot 
take  upon  me  to  say  —  and  as  to  slaughter,  or  man- 
slaughter, that  will  be  as  the  jury  finds  it. 

Lyd.    But  who,  sir  —  who  are  engaged  in  this  ? 

Fag.  Faith,  ma'am,  one  is  a  young  gentleman 
whom  I  should  be  very  sorry  anything  was  to  happen 
to  —  a  very  pretty  behaved  gentleman !  We  have 
lived  much  together,  and  always  on  terms. 

Lyd.    But  who  is  this  ?  who  ?  who  ?  who  ? 

Fag.  My  master,  ma'am  —  my  master  —  I  speak 
of  my  master. 

Lyd.    Heavens  !     What,  Captain  Absolute  ! 

Mrs.  Mai.    Oh,  to  be  sure,  you  are  frightened  now  ! 

[uL    But  who  are  with  him,  sir  ? 

Fag.  As  to  the  rest,  ma'am,  this  gentleman  can 
inform  you  better  than  I. 

Jul.    Do  speak,  friend.  \_To  DAVID. 

Dav.  Look'ee,  my  lady  —  by  the  mass!  there's 
mischief  going  on.  Folks  don't  use  to  meet  for 
amusement  with  firearms,  firelocks,  fire-engines,  fire- 
screens, fire-office,  and  the  devil  knows  what  other 
crackers  beside !  —  This,  my  lady,  I  say,  has  an 
angry  favour. 

////.  But  who  is  there  beside  Captain  Absolute, 
friend  ? 

Dav.  My  poor  master  —  under  favour  for  mention- 
ing him  first.  You  know  me,  my  lady  —  I  am  David 
—  and  my  master,  of  course,  is,  or  was.  Squire  Acres. 
Then  comes  Squire  Faulkland. 


96  SHERIDAN'S   COMEDIES. 

| 

Jul.  Do,  ma'am,  let  us  instantly  endeavour  to  pre- 
vent mischief. 

Mrs.  'Mai.  O  fie  !  —  it  would  be  very  inelegant  in 
us  :  —  we  should  only  participate  things. 

Dav.  •  Ah  !  do,  Mrs.  Aunt,  save  a  few  lives  —  they 
are  desperately  given,  believe  me.  —  Above  all,  there 
is  that  blood-thirsty  Philistine,  Sir  Lucius  O 'Trigger. 

Mrs.  Mai.  Sir  Lucius  O'Trigger  ?  O  mercy ! 
have  they  drawn  poor  little  dear  Sir  Lucius  into  the 
scrape  ?  —  Why,  how  you  stand,  girl !  you  have  no 
more  feeling  than  one  of  the  Derbyshire  petrifac- 
tions ! 

Lyd.   What  are  we  to  do,  madam  ? 

Mrs.  Mai.  Why  fly  with  the  utmost  felicity,  to  be 
sure,  to  prevent  mischief !  —  Here,  friend,  you  can 
show  us  the  place  ? 

Fag.  If  you  please,  ma'am,  I  will  conduct  you.  — 
David,  do  you  look  for  Sir  Anthony.  [Exit  DAVID. 

Mrs.  Mai.  Come,  girls !  this  gentleman  will  ex- 
hort us.  —  Come,  sir,  you're  our  envoy  —  lead  the 
way,  and  we  '11  precede. 

fag.    Not  a  step  before  the  ladies  for  the  world ! 

Mrs.  Mai.    You  're  sure  you  know  the  spot  ? 

Fag.  I  think  I  can  find  it,  ma'am ;  and  one  good 
thing  is,  we  shall  hear  the  report  of  the  pistols  as  we 
draw  near,  so  we  can't  well  miss  them; — : never 
fear,  ma'am,  never  fear.  \_Exeunt,  he  talking. 


SCENE  II.  —  The  South  Parade. 

Enter  CAPTAIN  ABSOLUTE,  putting  his  sword  under 
his  great  coat. 

Abs.    A  sword  seen  in  the  streets  of  Bath  would 
raise  as  great  an  alarm  as  a  mad  dog.  —  How  pro- 


THE  RIVALS.  97 

• 

yoking  this  is  in  Faulkland  !  —  never  punctual !     I 

shall  be  obliged  to  go  without  him  at  last.  —  Oh,  the 

devil !  here  's  Sir  Anthony !  —  how  shall  I  escape  him  ? 

\_Muffles  up  his  face,  and  takes  a  circle  to  go  off. 

Enter  SIR  ANTHONY  ABSOLUTE. 

Sir  Anth.  How  one  may  be  deceived  at  a  little 
distance  !  only  that  I  see  he  don't  know  me,  I  could 
have  sworn  that  was  Jack  !  —  Hey  !  Gad's  life  !  it  is. 

—  Why,  Jack,  what  are  you  afraid  of  ?  hey  !  —  sure 
I  'm  right.  —  Why,  Jack,  — Jack  Absolute  ! 

[Goes  up  to  him. 
Abs.    Really,  sir,  you  have  the  advantage  of  me : 

—  I  don't  remember  ever  to  have  had  the  honour  — 
my  name  is  Saunderson,  at  your  service. 

Sir  Anth.  Sir,  I  beg  your  pardon  —  I  took  you  — 
hey  ?  —  why,  zounds  !  it  is  —  Stay  —  \_Looks  up  to  his 
faceJ\  So,  so  —  your  humble  servant,  Mr.  Saunder- 
son !  — Why,  you  scoundrel,  what  tricks  are  you  after 
now  ? 

Abs.  Oh,  a  joke,  sir,  a  joke!  —  I  came  here  on 
purpose  to  look  for  you,  sir. 

Sir  Anth.  You  did !  well,  I  am  glad  you  were  so 
lucky:  —  but  what  are  you  muffled  up  so  for?  — 
what 's  this  for  ?  —  hey  ! 

Abs.  'T  is  cool  sir  ;  is  n't  it  ?  —  rather  chilly  some- 
how—  but  I  shall  be  late  —  I  have  a  particular 
engagement. 

Sir  Anth.  Stay  !  — Why,  I  thought  you  were  look- 
ing for  me  ?  —  Pray,  Jack,  where  is  't  you  are  going  ? 

Abs.    Going,  sir ! 

Sir  Anth.    Ay,  —  where  are  you  going  ? 

Abs.   Where  am  I  going  ? 

Sir  Anth.    You  unmannerly  puppy  ! 

Abs.    I  was  going,  sir,  to  —  to  —  to  —  to  Lydia  — 


98  SHERIDAN'S   COMEDIES. 

sir,  to  Lydia  —  to  make  matters  up  if  I  could  ;  —  and 
I  was  looking  for  you,  sir,  to  —  to  — 

Sir  Anth.  To  go  with  you,  I  suppose.  —  Well, 
come  along. 

Abs.  Oh  !  Zounds  !  no,  sir,  not  for  the  world  !  — 
I  wished  to  meet  with  you,  sir, — to — to — to  —  You 
find  it  cool,  I  'm  sure,  sir  —  you  'd  better  not  stay 
out. 

Sir  Anth.  Cool !  —  not  at  all.  —  Well,  Jack  —  and 
what  will  you  say  to  Lydia  ? 

Abs.  Oh,  sir,  beg  her  pardon,  humour  her  —  pro- 
mise and  vow  :  but  I  detain  you,  sir  —  consider  the 
cold  air  on  your  gout. 

Sir  Anth.  Oh,  not  at  all !  —  not  at  all !  I  'm  in  no 
hurry.  —  Ah  !  Jack,  you  youngsters,  when  once  you 
are  wounded  here  —  \Putting  his  hand  to  CAPTAIN 
ABSOLUTE'S  breast '.]  Hey !  what  the  deuce  have  you 
got  here  ? 

Abs.    Nothing,  sir  —  nothing. 

Sir  Anth.  What 's  this  ?  —  here  's  something 
damned  hard. 

Abs.  Oh,  trinkets,  sir!  trinkets!  —  a  bauble  for 
Lydia ! 

Sir  Anth.  Nay,  let  me  see  your  taste.  —  [Pulls  his 
coat  open,  the  sword  falls.']  Trinkets  !  —  a  bauble 
for  Lydia  !  —  Zounds  !  sirrah,  you  are  not  going  to 
cut  her  throat,  are  you  ? 

Abs.  Ha !  ha !  ha !  —  I  thought  it  would  divert 
you,  sir,  though  I  did  n't  mean  to  tell  you  till  after- 
wards. 

Sir  Anth.  You  didn't?  —  Yes,  this  is  a  very  di- 
verting trinket,  truly ! 

Abs.-  Sir,  I'll  explain  to  you.  —  You  know,  sir, 
Lydia  is  romantic,  devilish  romantic,  and  very 
absurd  of  course  :  now,  sir,  I  intend,  if  she  refuses  to 


THE  RIVALS.  99 

forgive  me,  to  imsheath  this  sword,  and  swear  —  I  '11 
fall  upon  its  point,  and  expire  at  her  feet ! 

Sir  Anth.  Fall  upon  a  fiddlestick's  end  !  —  why,  I 
suppose  it  is  the  very  thing  that  would  please  her.  — 
Get  along,  you  fool ! 

Abs.  Well,  sir,  you  shall  hear  of  my  success  —  you 
shall  hear.  —  O  Lydia  /  — forgive  me,  or  this  pointed 
steel — says  I. 

Sir  Anth.  O  booby  !  stab  away  and  welcome  —  says 
she.  —  Get  along  and  damn  your  trinkets  ! 

\Exit  CAPTAIN  ABSOLUTE. 

Enter  DAVID,  running. 

Dav.  Stop  him  !  Stop  him  !  Murder  !  Thief ! 
Fire  !  —  Stop  fire  !  Stop  fire  !  —  O  Sir  Anthony  — 
call !  call !  bid  'm  stop  !  Murder  !  Fire  ! 

Sir  Anth.    Fire  !     Murder  !  —  Where  ? 

Dav.  Oons !  he  's  out  of  sight !  and  I  'm  out  of 
breath  !  for  my  part !  O  Sir  Anthony,  why  did  n't 
you  stop  him  ?  why  did  n't  you  stop  him  ? 

Sir  Anth.  Zounds  !  the  fellow  's  mad  !  —  Stop 
whom  ?  stop  Jack  ? 

Dav.  Ay,  the  captain,  sir  !  — there  's  murder  and 
slaughter 

Sir  Anth.   Murder ! 

Dav.  Ay,  please  you,  Sir  Anthony,  there  's  all 
kinds  of  murder,  all  sorts  of  slaughter  to  be  seen 
in  the  fields  :  there  's  fighting  going  on,  sir  —  bloody 
sword-and-gun  fighting ! 

Sir  Anth.   Who  are  going  to  fight,  dunce  ? 

Dav.  Everybody  that  I  know  of,  Sir  Anthony :  — 
everybody  is  going  to  fight,  my  poor  master,  Sir 
Lucius  O 'Trigger,  your  son,  the  captain 

Sir  Anth.  Oh,  the  dog  !  — - 1  see  his  tricks.  —  Do 
you  know  the  place  ? 


100  SHERIDAN'S   COMEDIES. 

Dav.    King's-Mead-Fields. 

Sir  Anth.    You  know  the  way? 

Dav.  Not  an  inch  ;  but  I  '11  call  the  mayor  —  alder- 
men —  constables — churchwardens — and  beadles  — 
we  can't  be  too  many  to  part  them. 

Sir  Anth.  Come  along  —  give  me  your  shoulder  ! 
we '11  get  assistance  as  we  go — the  lying  villain  — 
Well,  I  shall  be  in  such  a  frenzy  !  —  So  —  this  was 
the  history  of  his  trinkets  !  I  '11  bauble  him  ! 

[Exeunt. 

S CENE  III.  —  King's-Mead-Fields. 

Enter  SIR  Lucius  O 'TRIGGER  and  ACRES,  with 
pistols. 

Acres.  By  my  valour  !  then,  Sir  Lucius,  forty  yards 
is  a  good  distance.  Odds  levels  and  aims  !  —  I  say 
it  is  a  good  distance. 

Sir  Luc.  Is  it  for  muskets  or  small  field-pieces  ? 
Upon  my  conscience,  Mr.  Acres,  you  must  leave 
those  things  to  me.  —  Stay  now  —  I  '11  show  you.  — 
\Measures  paces  along  the  stagel\  There  now,  that 
is  a  very  pretty  distance  —  a  pretty  gentleman's 
distance. 

Acres.  Zounds  !  we  might  as  well  fight  in  a  sentry- 
box  !  I  tell  you,  Sir  Lucius,  the  farther  he  is  off,  the 
cooler  I  shall  take  my  aim. 

Sir  Luc.  Faith  !  then  I  suppose  you  would  aim  at 
him  best  of  all  if  he  was  out  of  sight  1 

Acres.  No,  Sir  Lucius;  but  I  should  think  forty  or 
eight-and-thirty  yards 

Sir  Luc.  Pho  !  pho  !  nonsense  !  three  or  four  feet 
between  the  mouths  of  your  pistols  is  as  good  as  a 
mile. 


THE  RIVALS.  IOI 

Acres.    Odds  bullets,  no  !  —  by  my  yalour  !  there  is 
no   merit  in  killing  him  so  near :  do,  my  dear    Sir 
Lucius,  let  me  bring  him  .down  at  a  long  shot :  — 
a  long  shot,  Sir  Lucius,  if  y,o,',i  Jove  ,n?e  ;, :.     «%-o  ;   v. . 

Sir  Liu.  Well,  the  gentleman  s  friend  and  1  -m-isst 
settle  that.  —  But  tell  me  now,  Mr.  Acres,  in  case  of 
an  accident,  is  there  any  little  will  or  commission  I 
could  execute  for  you  ? 

Acres.  I  am  much  obliged  to  you,  Sir  Lucius  — 
but  I  don't  understand 

Sir  Luc.  Why,  you  may  think  there  's  no  being  shot 
at  without  a  little  risk  —  and  if  an  unlucky  bullet 
should  carry  a  quietus  with  it — I  say  it  will  be  no 
time  then  to  be  bothering  you  about  family  matters. 

Acres.    A  quietus  ! 

Sir  Ln,c.  For  instance,  now  —  if  that  should  be  the 
case  —  would  you  choose  to  be  pickled  and  sent 
home  ?  —  or  would  it  be  the  same  to  you  to  lie  here 
in  the  Abbey  ?  —  I  'm  told  there  is  very  snug  lying  in 
the  Abbey. 

Acres.  Pickled  !  —  Snug  lying  in  the  Abbey  !  — 
Odds  tremors!  Sir  Lucius,  don't  talk  so! 

Sir  Luc.  I  suppose,  Mr.  Acres,  you  never  were 
engaged  in  an  affair  of  this  kind  before  ? 

Acres.    No,  Sir  Lucius,  never  before. 

Sir  Luc.  Ah  !  that 's  a  pity  —  there  's  nothing  like 
being  used  to  a  thing.  —  Pray  now,  how  would  you 
receive  the  gentleman's  shot  ? 

Acres.  Odds  files  !  —  I  've  practised  that  —  there, 
Sir  Lucius  —  there.  —  \Puts  himself  in  an  attitude  i\ 
A  side-front,  hey  ?  Odd  !  I  '11  make  myself  small 
enough  :  I  '11  stand  edgeways. 

Sir  Luc.  Now  —  you  're  quite  out  —  for  if  you 
stand  so  when  I  take  my  aim  — 

{Levelling  at  him. 


IO2  SHERIDAN'S   COMEDIES. 

Acres.  Zounds !  Sir  Lucius  —  are  you  sure  it  is  not 
cocfeJ?  \£\  V'-  '»' 

Sir  Luc.    Never  fear!    , 

,  4.cres. .  But  —  but  •  — ;  "ypu  Gon't  know  —  it  may  go  off 
of  ?t£  cwri'hcad  ! ' 

Sir  Luc.  Pho!  be  easy. — Well,  now  if  I  hit  you 
in  the  body  my  bullet  has  a  double  chance  —  for  if  it 
misses  a  vital  part  of  your  right  side  —  't  will  be  very 
hard  if  it  don't  succeed  on  the  left ! 

Acres.    A  vital  part ! 

Sir  Luc.  But,  there  —  fix  yourself  so  —  [placing 
him\  —  let  him  see  the  broadside  of  your  full  front 

—  there  —  now  a  ball  or  two  may  pass  clean  through 
your  body,  and  never  do  any  harm  at  all. 

Acres.  Clean  through  me !  —  a  ball  or  two  clean 
through  me ! 

Sir  Luc.  Ay  —  may  they  —  and  it  is  much  the 
genteelest  attitude  into  the  bargain. 

Acres.  Look'ee  !  Sir  Lucius  —  I  'd  just  as  lieve  be 
shot  in  an  awkward  posture  as  a  genteel  one  —  so, 
by  my  valour  !  I  will  stand  edgeways. 

Sir  Luc.  \_Looking  at  his  watch .]  Sure  they  don't 
mean  to  disappoint  us  —  Hah  !  —  no,  faith  —  I  think 
I  see  them  coming. 

Acres.    Hey  !  —  what !  —  coming  ! 

Sir  Luc.  Ay.  —  Who  are  those  yonder  getting  ovc ; 
the  stile  ? 

Acres.  There  are  two  of  them  indeed  !  —  well  — 
let  them  come  —  hey,  Sir  Lucius!  —  we  —  we  —  we 

—  we  —  won't  run. 
Sir  Luc.    Run  ! 

Acres.    No  —  I  say  —  we  won V  run,  by  my  valour ! 
Sir  Luc.    What    the     devil 's     the     matter    with 
you? 

Acres.    Nothing  —  nothing  —  my  dear  friend  —  my 


THE  RIVALS.  1 03 

dear  Sir  Lucius  —  but  I  —  I  —  I  don't  feel  quite  so 
bold,  somehow,  as  I  did. 

Sir  Luc.    O  fie  !  —  consider  your  honour. 

Acres.  Ay  —  true  —  my  honour.  Do,  Sir  Lucius, 
edge  in  a  word  or  two  every  now  and  then  about  my 
honour. 

Sir  Luc.   Well,  here  they  're  coming.          \Looking. 

Acres.  Sir  Lucius  —  if  I  wa'n't  with  you,  I  should 
almost  think  I  was  afraid.  —  If  my  valour  should  leave 
me  !  —  Valour  will  come  and  go. 

Sir  Luc.    Then  pray  keep  it  fast,  while  you  have  it. 

Acres.  Sir  Lucius  —  I  doubt  it  is  going  —  yes  — 
my  valour  is  certainly  going  !  —  it  is  sneaking  off  !  — 
I  feel  it  oozing  out  as  it  were,  at  the  palms  of  my 
hands ! 

Sir  Luc.  Your  honour  —  your  honour.  —  Here 
they  are. 

Acres.  O  mercy  !  —  now  —  that  I  was  safe  at  Clod- 
Hall  !  or  could  be  shot  before  I  was  aware ! 

Enter  FAULKLAND  and  CAPTAIN  ABSOLUTE. 

Sir  Luc.  Gentlemen,  your  most  obedient.  —  Hah  ! 
—  what,  Captain  Absolute  !  —  So,  I  suppose,  sir,  you 
are  come  here,  just  like  myself  —  to  do  a  kind  office, 
first  for  your  friend  —  then  to  proceed  to  business  on 
your  own  account. 

Acres.  What,  Jack !  —  my  dear  Jack !  —  my  dear 
friend  ! 

Abs.   Hark'ee,  Bob,  Beverley  's  at  hand. 

Sir  Luc.  Well,  Mr.  Acres,  —  I  don't  blame  your 
saluting  the  gentleman  civilly.  —  \To  FAULKLAND.] 
So,  Mr.  Beverley,  if  you  '11  choose  your  weapons,  the 
captain  and  I  will  measure  the  ground. 

Faulk.   My  weapons,  sir. 


IO4  SHERIDAN'S   COMEDIES. 

Acres.  Odds  life !  Sir  Lucius,  I  'm  not  going  to 
fight  Mr.  Faulkland  ;  these  are  my  particular  friends. 

Sir  Luc.  What,  sir,  did  you  not  come  here  to  fight 
Mr.  Acres  ? 

Faulk.    Not  I,  upon  my  word,  sir. 

Sir  Luc.  Well,  now,  that 's  mighty  provoking ! 
But  I  hope,  Mr.  Faulkland,  as  there  are  three  of  us 
come  on  purpose  for  the  game  —  you  won't  be  so 
cantankerous  as  to  spoil  the  party  by  sitting  out. 

Abs.    O  pray,  Faulkland,  fight  to  oblige  Sir  Lucius. 

Faulk.  Nay,  if  Mr.  Acres  is  so  bent  on  the 
matter 

Acres.  No,  no,  Mr.  Faulkland  ;  —  I  '11  bear  my  dis- 
appointment like  a  Christian.  —  Look'ee,  Sir  Lucius, 
there  's  no  occasion  at  all  for  me  to  fight ;  and  if  it  is 
the  same  to  you,  I  'd  as  lieve  let  it  alone. 

Sir  Luc.  Observe  me,  Mr.  Acres  —  I  must  not  be 
trifled  with.  You  have  —  certainly  challenged  some- 
body—  and  you  came  here  to  fight  him.  —  Now,  if 
that  gentleman  is  willing  to  represent  him  —  I  can't 
see,  for  my  soul,  why  it  is  n't  just  the  same  thing. 

Acres.  Why  no  —  Sir  Lucius  —  I  tell  you  't  is  one 
Beverley  I  've  challenged  —  a  fellow,  you  see,  that 
dare  not  show  his  face  !  —  If  he  were  here,  I  'd  make 
him  give  up  his  pretensions  directly ! 

Abs.  Hold,  Bob  —  let  me  set  you  right  —  there  is 
no  such  man  as  Beverley  in  the  case.  —  The  person 
who  assumed  that  name  is  before  you ;  and  as  his 
pretensions  are  the  same  in  both  characters,  he  is 
ready  to  support  them  in  whatever  way  you  please. 

Sir  Luc.  Well,  this  is  lucky.  —  Now  you  have  an 
opportunity 

Acres.  What,  quarrel  with  my  dear  friend  Jack 
Absolute  ?  not  if  he  were  fifty  Beverleys  !  Zounds  ! 
Sir  Lucius,  you  would  not  have  me  so  unnatural. 


THE  RIVALS.  1 05 

Sir  Luc.  Upon  my  conscience,  Mr.  Acres,  your 
valour  has  oozed  away  with  a  vengeance. 

Acres.  Not  in  the  least !  Odds  backs  and  abettors  ! 
I  '11  be  your  second  with  .  all  my  heart  —  and  if  you 
should  get  a  quietus  you  may  command  me  entirely. 
I '11  get  you  snug  lying  in  the  Abbey  here ;  or  pickle 
you,  and  send  you  over  to  Blunderbuss-Hall,  or  any- 
thing of  the  kind,  with  the  greatest  pleasure. 

Sir  Luc.  Pho !  pho !  you  are  little  better  than  a 
coward. 

Acres.  Mind,  gentlemen,  he  calls  me  a  coward ' ; 
coward  was  the  word,  by  my  valour. 

Sir  Luc.    Well,  sir  ? 

Acres.  Look'ee,  Sir  Lucius,  't  is  n't  that  I  mind  the 
word  coward  —  coward  may  be  said  in  joke  —  But 
if  you  had  called  me  a  poltroon,  odds  daggers  and 
balls 

Sir  Luc.    Well,  sir  ? 

Acres. 1  should  have  thought  you  a  very  ill- 
bred  man. 

Sir  Luc.    Pho  !  you  are  beneath  my  notice. 

Abs.  Nay,  Sir  Lucius,  you  can't  have  a  better 
second  than  my  friend  Acres —  He  is  a  most  deter- 
mined dog —  called  in  the  country  Fighting 'Bob. — 
He  generally  kills  a  man  a  week —  don't  you,  Bob  ? 

Acres.    Ay  —  at  home  ! 

Sir  Luc.  Well,  then,  captain,  't  is  we  must  begin 
—  so  come  out,  my  little  counsellor  —  [Draws  his 
sword~\  —  and  ask  the  gentleman  whether  he  will  re- 
sign the  lady  without  forcing  you  to  proceed  against 
him  ? 

Abs.  Come  on  then,  sir — \_Draws\\  since  you 
won't  let  it  be  an  amicable  suit,  here 's  my  reply. 


106  SHERIDAN'S   COMEDIES. 

Enter    SIR     ANTHONY     ABSOLUTE,     DAVID,    MRS. 
MALAPROP,  LYDIA,  and  JULIA. 

Dav.  Knock  'em  all  down,  sweet  Sir  Anthony  ; 
knock  down  my  master  in  particular ;  and  bind  his 
hands  over  to  their  good  behaviour ! 

Sir  Anth.  Put  up,  Jack,  put  up,  or  I  shall  be  in  a 
frenzy  —  how  came  you  in  a  duel,  sir  ? 

-Abs.  Faith,  sir,  that  gentleman  can  tell  you  better 
than  I ;  't  was  he  called  on  me,  and  you  know,  sir,  I 
serve  his  majesty. 

Sir  Anth.  Here  's  a  pretty  fellow  ;  I  catch  him  go- 
ing to  cut  a  man's  throat,  and  he  tells  me  he  serves 
his  majesty !—  Zounds  !  sirrah,  then  how  durst  you 
draw  the  king's  sword  against  one  of  his  subjects  ? 

Abs.  Sir,  I  tell  you  !  that  gentleman  called  me  out, 
without  explaining  his  reasons. 

Sir  Anth.  Gad  !  sir,  how  came  you  to  call  my  son 
out,  without  explaining  your  reasons  ? 

Sir  Luc.^  Your  son,  sir,  insulted  me  in  a  manner 
which  my  honour  could  not  brook. 

Sir  Anth.  Zounds !  Jack,  how  durst  you  insult 
the  gentleman  in  a  manner  which  his  honour  could 
not  brook  ? 

Mrs.  Mai.  Come,  come,  let  's  have  no  honour 
before  ladies —  Captain  Absolute,  come  here  — 
How  could  you  intimidate  us  so  ?  —  Here  's  Lydia 
has  been  terrified  to  death  for  you. 

Abs.  For  fear  I  should  be  killed,  or  escape, 
ma'am  ? 

Mrs.  Mai.  Nay,  no  delusions  to  the  past  —  Lydia 
is  convinced  ;  speak,  child. 

Sir  Luc.  With  your  leave,  ma'am,  I  must  put  in  a 
word  here  —  I  believe  I  could  interpret  the  young 
lady's  silence.  —  Now  mark 


THE  RIVALS. 


Lyd.   What  is  it  you  mean,  sir  ? 

Sir  Luc.  Come,  come,  Delia,  we  must  be  serious 
now  —  this  is  no  time  for  trifling. 

Lyd.  'T  is  true,  sir  ;  and  your  reproof  bids  me 
ofler  this  gentleman  my  hand,  and  solicit  the  return 
of  his  affections. 

Abs.  O  !  my  little  angel,  say  you  so  ?  —  Sir  Lucius 
—  I  perceive  there  must  be  some  mistake  here,  with 
regard  to  the  affront  which  you  affirm  I  have  given 
you.  I  can  only  say  that  it  could  not  have  been  in- 
tentional. And  as  you  must  be  convinced  that  I 
should  not  fear  to  support  a  real  injury  —  you  shall 
now  see  that  I  am  not  ashamed  to  atone  for  an  inad- 
vertency —  I  ask  your  pardon.  —  But  for  this  lady, 
while  honoured  with  her  approbation,  I  will  support 
my  claim  against  any  man  whatever. 

Sir  Anth.  Well  said,  Jack,  and  I  '11  stand  by  you, 
my  boy. 

Acres.  Mind,  I  give  up  all  my  claim  —  I  make  no 
pretensions  to  anything  in  the  world  —  and  if  I  can't 
get  a  wife  without  fighting  for  her,  by  my  valour  !  I  '11 
live  a  bachelor. 

Sir  Luc.  Captain,  give  me  your  hand  —  an  affront 
handsomely  acknowledged  becomes  an  obligation  ;  — 
and  as  for  the  lady  —  if  she  chooses  to  deny  her  own 
handwriting,  here  -  \Takes  out  letters, 

Mrs.  Mai.  O,  he  will  dissolve  my  mystery!  —  Sir 
Lucius,  perhaps  there's  some  mistake,  —  perhaps  I 
can  illuminate  - 

Sir  Luc.  Pray,  old  gentlewoman,  don't  interfere 
where  you  have  no  business.  —  Miss  Languish,  are 
you  my  Delia,  or  not  ? 

Lyd.    Indeed,  Sir  Lucius,  I  am  not. 

[  Walks  aside  with  CAPTAIN  ABSOLUTE. 

Mrs.  Mai.    Sir  Lucius  O  'Trigger  —  ungrateful  as 


108  SHERIDAN'S   COMEDIES. 

you  are  —  I  own  the  soft  impeachment  —  pardon  my 
blushes,  I  am  Delia. 

Sir  Lite.    You  Delia  —  pho  !  pho  !  be  easy. 

Mrs.  Mai.  Why,  thou  barbarous  Vandyke  —  those 
letters  are  mine  —  When  you  are  more  sensible  of 
my  benignity  —  perhaps  I  may  be  brought  to  encour- 
age your  addresses. 

Sir  Luc.  Mrs.  Malaprop,  I  am  extremely  sensible 
of  your  condescension ;  and  whether  you  or  Lucy 
have  put  this  trick  on  me,  I  am  equally  beholden  to 
you.  —  And  to  show  you  I  am  not  ungrateful,  Cap- 
tain Absolute,  since  you  have  taken  that  lady  from 
me,  I  '11  give  you  my  Delia  into  the  bargain. 

Abs.  I  am  much  obliged  to  you,  Sir  Lucius ;  but 
here  's  my  friend,  Fighting  Bob,  unprovided  for. 

Sir  Luc.  Hah  !  little  Valour  —  here,  will  you  make 
your  fortune  ? 

Acres.  Odds  wrinkles  !  No.  —  But  give  me  your 
hand,  Sir  Lucius,  forget  and  forgive ;  but  if  ever  I 
give  you  a  chance  ol  pickling  me  again,  say  Bob  Acres 
is  a  dunce,  that 's  all. 

Sir  Anth.  Come,  Mrs.  Malaprop,  don't  be  cast 
down  —  you  are  in  your  bloom  yet. 

Mrs.  Mai.  O  Sir  Anthony  —  men  are  all  bar- 
barians. [All  retire  but  JULIA  and  FAULKLAND. 

Jul.    [AsideJ]     He  seems  dejected  and  unhappy  — 
not  sullen  ;  there  was  some  foundation,  however,  for 
the  tale  he  told  me  —     O  woman  !  how  true  should 
be  your  judgment,  when  your  resolution  is  so  weak ! 

Faulk.  Julia  !  —  how  can  I  sue  for  what  I  so  little 
deserve?  I  dare  not  presume — yet  Hope  is  the 
child  of  Penitence. 

Jul.  Oh!  Faulkland,  you  have  not  been  more 
faulty  in  your  unkind  treatment  of  me,  than  I  am  now 
in  wanting  inclination  to  resent  it.  As  my  heart 


THE  RIVALS.  IOQ 

honestly  bids  me  place  my  weakness  to  the  account 
of  love,  I  should  be  ungenerous  not  to  admit  the 
same  plea  for  yours. 

Faulk.    Now  I  shall  be  blest  indeed  ! 

Sir  Ant/i.  [Coming  forward. ~\  What 's  going  on 
here  ?  —  So  you  have  been  quarrelling  too,  I  warrant ! 
—  Come,  Julia,  I  never  interfered  before  ;  but  let  me 
have  a  hand  in  the  matter  at  last.  —  All  the  fault  I 
have  ever  seen  in  my  friend  Faulkland  seemed  to 
proceed  from  what  he  calls  the  delicacy  and  warmth 
of  his  affection  for  you.  —  There,  marry  him  directly, 
Julia  ;  you  '11  find  he  '11  mend  surprisingly  ! 

\The  rest  come  forward. 

Sir  Luc.  Come,  now,  I  hope  there  is  no  dissatis- 
fied person,  but  what  is  content ;  for  as  I  have  been 
disappointed  myself,  it  will  be  very  hard  if  I  have 
not  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  other  people  suc- 
ceed better 

Acres.  You  are  right,  Sir  Lucius.  —  So  Jack,  I 
wish  you  joy  —  Mr.  Faulkland  the  same. — Ladies, 
—  come  now,  to  show  you  I  'm  neither  vexed  nor 
angry,  odds  tabours  and  pipes  !  I  '11  order  the  fiddles 
in  half  an  hour  to  the  New  Rooms  —  and  I  insist  on 
your  all  meeting  me  there. 

Sir  Anth.  'Gad !  sir,  I  like  your  spirit ;  and  at 
night  we  single  lads  will  drink  a  health  to  the  young 
couples,  and  a  husband  to  Mrs.  Malaprop. 

Faulk.  Our  partners  are  stolen  from  us,  Jack  —  I 
hope  to  be  congratulated  by  each  other — yours  for 
having  checked  in  time  the  errors  of  an  ill-directed 
imagination,  which  might  have  betrayed  an  innocent 
heart ;  and  mine,  for  having,  by  her  gentleness  and 
candour,  reformed  the  unhappy  temper  of  one  who  by 
it  made  wretched  whom  he  loved  most,  and  tortured 
the  heart  he  ought  to  have  adored. 


110  SHERIDAWS   COMEDIES. 

Abs.  Well,  Jack,  we  have  both  tasted  the  bitters, 
as  well  as  the  sweets  of  love ;  with  this  difference 
only,  that  you  always  prepared  the  bitter  cup  for 
yourself,  while  7 

Lyd.  Was  always  obliged  to  me  for  it,  hey !  Mr. 
Modesty  ? But  come,  no  more  of  that  —  our  hap- 
piness is  now  as  unalloyed  as  general. 

////.  Then  let  us  study  to  preserve  it  so :  and 
while  Hope  pictures  to  us  a  flattering  scene  of  future 
bliss,  let  us  deny  its  pencil  those  colours  which  are 
too  bright  to  be  lasting.  —  When  hearts  deserving 
happiness  would  unite  their  fortunes,  Virtue  would 
crown  them  with  an  unfading  garland  of  modest 
hurtless  flowers ;  but  ill-judging  Passion  will  force 
the  gaudier  rose  into  the  wreath,  whose  thorn  of- 
fends them  when  its  leaves  are  dropped ! 

[Exeunt  omnes. 


EPILOGUE. 

BY   THE  AUTHOR. 
SPOKEN  BY  MRS.  BULKLEY. 


LADIES,  for  you  —  I  heard  our  poet  say  — 
He  'd  try  to  coax  some  moral  from  his  play : 
"One  moral's  plain,"  cried  I,  "without  more  fuss: 
Man's  social  happiness  all  rests  on  us  : 
Through  all  the  drama  —  whether  damn'd  or  not  — 
Love  gilds  the  scene,  and  women  guide  the  plot. 
From  every  rank  obedience  is  our  due  — 
D'ye  doubt  ? —  The  world's  great  stage  shall  prove 
it  true." 

The  cit,  well  skill'd  to  shun  domestic  strife, 
Will  sup  abroad  ;  but  first  he  '11  ask  his  wife  : 
John  Trot,  his  friend,  for  once  will  do  the  same, 
But  then  —  he  '11  just  step  home  to  tell  his  dame. 

The  surly  Squire  at  noon  resolves  to  rule, 
And  half  the  day  —  Zounds  !  madam  is  a  fool ! 
Convinced  at  night,  the  vanquish 'd  victor  says, 
Ah,  Kate  !  you  women  have  such  coaxing  ways  ! 

The/<?//v  Toper  chides  each  tardy  blade, 
Till  reeling  Bacchus  calls  on  Love  for  aid : 
Then  with  each  toast  he  sees  fair  bumpers  swim, 
And  kisses  Chloe  on  the  sparkling  brim  ! 

Nay,  I   have  heard  that  Statesmen  —  great  and 

wise  — 
Will  sometimes  counsel  with  a  lady's  eyes  ! 


112  SHERIDAN'S   COMEDIES. 

The  servile  suitors  watch  her  various  face, 
She  smiles  preferment,  or  she  frowns  disgrace, 
Curtsies  a  pension  here  —  there  nods  a  place. 

Nor  with  less  awe,  in  scenes  of  humbler  life, 
Is  viewed  the  mistress,  or  is  heard  the  wife. 
The  poorest  peasant  of  the  poorest  soil, 
The  child  of  poverty,  and  heir  to  toil, 
Early  from  radiant  Love's  impartial  light 
Steals  one  small  spark  to  cheer  this  world  of  night : 
Dear  spark  !  that  of t.  through  winter's  chilling  woes 
Is  all  the  warmth  his  little  cottage  knows  ! 

The  wandering  Tar,  who  not  ion  years  has  press'd 
The  widow'd  partner  of  his  day  of  rest, 
On  the  cold  deck,  far  from  her  arms  removed, 
Still  hums  the  ditty  which  his  Susan  loved ; 
And  while  around  the  cadence  rude  is  blown, 
The  boatswain  whistles  in  a  softer  tone. 

The  Soldier,  fairly  proud  of  wounds  and  toil, 
Pants  for  the  triumph  of  his  Nancy's  smile ; 
But  ere  the  battle  should  he  list'  her  cries, 
The  lover  trembles  —  and  the  hero  dies  ! 
That  heart,  by  war  and  honour  steel'd  to  fear, 
Droops  on  a  sigh,  and  sickens  at  a  tear ! 

But  ye  more  cautious,  ye  nice-judging  few, 
Who  give  to  Beauty  only  Beauty's  due, 
Though  friends  to  Love  — ye  view  with  deep  regret 
Our  conquests  marr'd,  our  triumphs  incomplete, 
Till  polish 'd  Wit  more  lasting  charms  disclose, 
And  Judgment  fix  the  darts  which  Beauty  throws  ! 

In  female  breasts  did  sense  and  merit  rule, 
The  lover's  mind  would  ask  no  other  school ; 
Shamed  into  sense,  the  scholars  of  our  eyes, 
Our  beaux  from  gallantry  would  soon  be  wise  ; 
Would  gladly  light,  their  homage  to  improve, 
The  lamp  of  Knowledge  at  the  torch  of  Love ! 


THE   SCHOOL    FOR   SCANDAL. 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL. 


EARLY  in  the  spring  of  1776  Richard  Brinsley 
Sheridan  succeeded  David  Garrick  as  the  manager 
of  Drury  Lane  Theatre.  Within  a  'little  more  than 
a  year  Sheridan  had  brought  out  the  l  Rivals/  a 
comedy  in  five  acts,  'St.  Patrick's  Day,'  a  farce  in 
one  act,  and  the  '  Duenna,'  an  opera  in  three  acts. 
Great  expectations  were  excited  by  the  announce- 
ment of  his  first  play  at  his  own  theatre.  The  pro- 
duction of  the  '  Trip  to  Scarborough  '  in  February, 
1777,  was  only  a  temporary  disappointment,  for  it 
was  soon  noised  abroad  that  a  more  important  com- 
edy in  five  acts  was  in  preparation.  At  last,  on 
May  8,  1777,  the  *  School  for  Scandal '  was  acted  for 
the  first  time  on  any  stage. 

Garrick  had  read  the  play,  and  he  thought  even 
more  highly  of  it  than  he  had  thought  of  Mrs.  Sheri- 
dan's i  Discovery  '  many  years  before.  He  aided 
the  author  with  much  practical  advice,  and  volun- 
teered to  write  the  prologue,  a  form  of  composition 
for  which  his  lively  fancy  and  neat  versification  were 
particularly  suited.  The  great  hopes  excited  for  the 
comedy  barely  escaped  disappointment  —  for  on  the 
night  before  the  first  performance,  as  Sheridan  told 
the  House  of  Commons  many  years  later,  he  was 
informed  that  it  could  not  be  performed,  as  a  license 
was  refused.  It  happened  at  this  time  there  was  the 
famous  city  contest  for  the  office  of  chamberlain, 
"5 


Il6  THE  SCHOOL  FOR   SCANDAL. 

between  Wilkes  and  Hopkins.  The  latter  had  been 
charged  with  some  practices  similar  to  those  of 
Moses,  the  Jew,  in  lending  money  to  young  men 
under  age,  and  it  was  supposed  that  the  character  of 
the  play  was  levelled  at  him,  in  order  to  injure  him 
in  his  contest,  in  which  he  was  supported  by  the 
ministerial  interest.  In  the  warmth  of  a  contested 
election,  the  piece  was  represented  as  a  factious  and 
seditious  opposition  to  a  court  candidate.  The  au- 
thor, however,  went  to  Lord  Hertford,  then  lord 
chamberlain,  who  laughed  at  the  affair  and  gave 
the  license.  Sheridan  told  Lord  Byron  that  the  next 
night,  after  the  grand  success  of  the  'School  for 
Scandal,'  he  was  knocked  down  and  taken  to  the 
watch-house,  for  making  a  row  in  the  street,  and 
being  found  intoxicated  by  the  watchman. 

Perhaps  this  was  only  a  bit  of  Hibernian  hyper- 
bole, though  a  man's  head  might  well  reel  under  a 
triumph  so  overwhelming.  There  seems  to  have 
been  hardly  a  dissenting  voice.  Merry  —  Della-Crus- 
can  Merry,  the  future  husband  of  Miss  Brunton,  who, 
under  his  name,  was  afterward  the  leading  actress  of 
America  —  did,  it  is  true,  object  to  the  great  scandal- 
scene.  "Why  do  not  the  dramatis  persona"  he 
said,  "  stop  talking,  and  let  the  play  go  on  ?  "  The 
comedy  was  a  success  from  the  rising  of  the  curtain, 
but  it  was  the  falling  of  the  screen  —  although  Gar- 
rick  thought  the  actors  stood  a  little  too  long  without 
moving  —  which  raised  the  audience  to  the  highest 
degree  of  enthusiasm.  Reynolds,  the  dramatist, 
relates  that  as  he  was  passing  about  nine  on  this 
evening  through  the  pit-passage,  "  I  heard  such  a 
tremendous  noise  over  my  head  that,  fearing  the  the- 
atre was  proceeding  to  fall  about  it,  I  ran  for  my 
life ;  but  found  the  next  morning  that  the  noise  did 


INTROD UCTION.  1 1 7 

not  arise  from  the  falling  of  the  house,  but  from  the 
falling  of  the  screen  in  the  fourth  act,  so  violent  and 
tumultuous  were  the  applause  and  laughter." 

The  singular  success  of  the  '  School  for  Scandal ' 
seems  to  have  been  greatly  aided  by  the  unusual 
excellence  of  the  acting.  Charles  Lamb  says,  "  No 
piece  was  ever  so  completely  cast  in  all  its  parts  as 
this  manager's  comedy."  Sheridan  chose  his  per- 
formers, and  modified  his  play,  if  needed,  to  suit 
their  peculiarities,  with  the  same  shrewdness  that  he 
showed  in  all  such  matters.  When  reproached  with 
not  having  written  a  love-scene  for  Charles  and 
Maria,  he  said  that  it  was  because  neither  Mr.  Smith 
nor  Miss  P.  Hopkins  (who  played  the  parts)  was  an 
adept  at  stage  love-making.  King,  the  original 
Lord  Ogleby  in  the  '  Clandestine  Marriage'  —  a  part 
written  by  Garrick  himself  —  was  Sir  Peter;  and 
Mrs.  Abington  was  Lady  Teazle.  No  one  was  better 
suited  than  John  Palmer,  from  whom  Sheridan  may 
well  have  derived  some  hints  of  Joseph  Surface ; 
Boaden  relates  a  characteristic  interview  between 
him  and  the  manager,  when  he  returned  to  the  the- 
atre after  an  escapade.  "  My  dear  Mr.  Sheridan," 
began  the  actor,  with  clasped  hands  and  penitent 
humility,  "if  you  could  but  know  what  I  feel  at  this 
moment  here!"  laying  one  hand  upon  his  heart. 
Sheridan,  with  his  usual  quickness,  stopped  him  at 
once  :  "  Why,  Jack,  you  forgot  I  wrote  it!"  Palmer 
declared  that  the  manager's  wit  cost  him  something, 
"for  I  made  him  add  three  pounds  per  week  to  the 
salary  I  had  before  my  desertion."  The  other  actors 
were  hardly  inferior  to  King  and  Palmer.  Parsons, 
afterward  the  original  Sir  Fretful  Plagiary,  was  Crab- 
tree  ;  and  Dodd,  who  has  been  called  "  the  Prince  of 
Pink  Heels  and  Soul  of  Empty  Eminence,"  was  Sir 


Il8  THE   SCHOOL  FOR   SCANDAL. 

Benjamin  Backbite.  The  various  characters  fitted 
the  actors  who  played  them  with  the  most  exact 
nicety ;  and  the  result  was  a  varied  and  harmonious 
performance  of  the  entire  comedy.  The  acting 
showed  the  smoothness,  and  the  symmetry,  and  the 
due  subordination  of  the  parts  to  the  whole,  which 
is  the  highest,  and,  alas !  the  rarest  of  dramatic 
excellences.  Walpole  has  noted  that  there  were 
more  parts  better  played  in  the  '  School  for  Scandal ' 
than  he  almost  ever  remembered  to  have  seen  in 
any  other  play ;  and  Charles  Lamb  thought  it  "  some 
compensation  for  growing  old,  to  have  seen  the 
'  School  for  Scandal '  in  its  glory." 

Dr.  Watkins,  in  his  unnecessary  biography  of 
Sheridan,  saw  fit  to  insinuate  therein  that  Sheridan 
was  not  the  real  author  of  the  '  School  for  Scandal,' 
but  that  it  was  the  composition  of  a  young  lady, 
daughter  of  a  merchant  in  Thames  Street,  who  had 
left  it  with  Sheridan  for  his  judgment  as  a  manager, 
"  soon  after  which  the  fair  writer,  who  was  then  in 
a  state  of  decline,  went  to  Bristol  Hot- Wells,  where 
she  died." 

Pope  well  knew  the  type  to  which  this  Dr.  Watkins 
belonged  ("  with  him  most  authors  steal  their  works 
or  buy ;  Garth  did  not  write  his  own  *  Dispensary  '  ")  ; 
and  the  story  which  Pope  crippled,  as  if  by  anticipa- 
tion, Moore  readily  brought  to  ground  by  the  publi- 
cation of  the  earlier  and  inchoate  suggestions  from 
which  Sheridan  finally  formed  the  finished  play. 
With  the  evidence  of  these  growing  and  gathering 
fragments  before  us,  we  can  trace  the  inception  of 
the  idea,  and  the  slow  accretion  by  which  it  got 
rounded  at  last  into  its  present  complex  symmetry. 
Moore  fills  page  after  page  of  his  life  of  Sheridan 
with  extracts  from  the  notes  and  drafts  of  two  dis- 


INTR  OD  UCTION.  1 1 9 

tinct  plays  —  one  containing  the  machinery  of  the 
scandalous  college,  to  have  been  called  possibly 
the  '  Slanderers,'  and  the  other  setting  before  us 
the  Teazles  and  the  Surfaces.  This  latter  was,  per- 
haps, the  two-act  comedy  which  Sheridan  announced 
to  Mr.  Linley  in  1775,  as  being  in  preparation  for 
the  stage.  The  gradual  amalgamation  of  these  two 
distinct  plots,  the  growth  of  the  happy  thought  of 
using  the  malevolent  tittle-tattle  of  the  first  play  as  a 
background  to  set  off  the  intrigues  of  the  second,  can 
be  clearly  traced  in  the  extracts  given  by  Moore. 
In  the  eyes  of  some  small  critics  this  revelation  of 
Sheridan's  laborious  method  of  working,  this  exhibi- 
tion of  the  chips  of  his  workshop  has  had  a  lowering 
effect  on  their  opinion  of  Sheridan's  ability.  It  is, 
perhaps,  his  own  fault,  for  he  affected  laziness  and 
sought  the  reputation  of  an  off-hand  wit.  But  the 
*  School  for  Scandal '  is  obviously  not  a  spontaneous 
improvisation.  Its  symmetrical  smoothness  and  per- 
fect polish  cost  great  labott¥/  It  did  not  spring  full 
armed  from  the  brain  of-  JW£  ;  —  Jupiter  was  a  god, 
and  mere  mortals  must  cudgel  their  poor  brains  long 
years  to  bring  forth  ^wisdom.  No  masterpiece  was 
ever  dashed  off  hurriedly.  The  power  of  hard  work, 
and  the  willingness^to  -take  pains,  are  among  the 
attributes  of  the-  highest  genius.  Balzac  had  them  ; 
he  spent  the  v,  hole  of  one  long  winter  night  on  a 
single  sentei!  had  Sheridan  ;  he  told  Ridg- 

way,  to  whonfi  h^lYad  Sold  the  copyright  of  this  very 
play,  and  who^^liBf for  the  manuscript  again  and 
again  in  vain.  trr£H9he  had  been  for  nineteen  years 
endeavouring  to  satisfy  himself  with  the  style  of  the 
'  SchoJ^^^^Kdal,'  but  had  not  yet  succeeded. 
A  di,  f  fhe  first  water,  like  this,  is  worth  care- 

ful cutting^  find  even  the  chips  are  of  value.    Those 


I2O      THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL. 

given  to  the  world  by  Moore  are  curious  in  them- 
selves, independent  of  their  use  in  disproving  the 
charge  of  literary  larceny  preferred  by  Dr.  Watkins. 

Since  the  publication  of  these  extracts,  those  who 
seek  to  discredit  Sheridan's  originality  have  shifted 
their  ground,  and  content  themselves  with  drawing 
attention  to  the  singular  similarity  of  Joseph  and 
Charles  to  Tom  Jones  and  Blifil.  They  also  remark 
upon  the  likeness  of  the  scandal-scene  to  a  satirical 
episode  in  the  '  Misanthrope  '  of  Moliere,  and  on  the 
likeness  of  Joseph  Surface  to  Tartuffe.  Taine,  who 
seems  sometimes  to  speak  slightingly  of  Sheridan, 
puts  this  accusation  into  most  effective  shape : 
"  Sheridan  took  two  characters  from  Fielding,  Blifil 
and  Tom  Jones,  two  plays  of  Moliere,  '  Le  Misan- 
thrope' and  'Tartuffe,'  and  from  his  puissant  ma- 
terials, condensed  with  admirable  cleverness,  he  has 
constructed  the  most  brilliant  fireworks  imaginable." 

A  glance  at  the  play  itself  will  show  this  to  be  a 
most  exaggerated  statement.  The  use  of  Moliere 
and  Fielding  is  far  sljg^er  than  alleged  ;  and  at 
most  to  what  does  it  all  amount?  But  little  more 
than  the  outline  and  faint  colouring  of  two  characters, 
and  of  a  very  few  incidents,  Jflfhile  the  play  could 
not  exist  without  them,  they  are  far  from  the  most 
important.  Lady  Teazle  and  Sir  Peter,  the  screen- 
scene  and  the  auction-scene  —  these  are  what  made 
the  success  of  the  '  School  for  Scandal,'  and  not  what 
Sheridan  may  have  derived  from  Fielding  and 
Moliere.  Nor  is  this  borrowing  at  all  as  extensive 
as  it  may  seem.  Joseph  is  a  hypocrite  ^.so  is  Tar- 
tuffe, so  is  Blifil ;  but  there  are  hypocrites  ,and  hypo- 
crites, and -the  resemblance  can  scarcely  be  stretched 
much  farther.  The  rather  rustic  and  —  if  the.  word 
may  be  risked  —  vulgar  Tom  Jones  id.,  as  unlike  as 


INTR  OD  UCTION.  1 2 1 

may  be  to  that  light  and  easy  gentleman  Charles. 
Yet  it  seems  probable  that  Sheridan  found  in  Tom 
Jones  the  first  idea  of  the  contrasted  brothers  of  the 
1  School  for  Scandal.'  Boaden  has  even  seen  the 
embryonic  suggestion  of  the  fall  of  the  screen  in 
the  dropping  of  the  rug  in  Molly  Seagrim's  room, 
discovering  the  philosopher  Square.  Now,  Sheridan 
had  a  marvellous  power  of  assimilation.  He  ex- 
tended a  ready  welcome  to  all  floating  seeds  of 
thought ;  and  in  his  fertile  brain  they  would  speedily 
spring  up,  bringing  forth  the  best  they  could.  But 
to  evolve  from  the  petty  discomfiture  of  Square  the 
almost  unequalled  effect  of  the  screen-scene  —  to  see 
in  the  one  the  germs  of  the  other  —  were  a  task 
worthy  even  of  Sheridan's  quick  eye.  The  indebted- 
ness to  Moliere  is  even  less  than  to  Fielding.  We 
may  put  on  one  side  Sheridan's  ignorance  of  French 
—  for  in  Colley  Gibber's  *  Non-Juror,'  or  in  Bicker- 
staff's  '  Hypocrite,'  he  could  find  Moliere's  Tartuffe  ; 
and  the  scandal-loving  Celimene  of  the  *  Misanthrope,' 
he  might  trace  in  Wycherley's  '  Plain-Dealer.'  If 
Sheridan  had  borrowed  from  Moliere  he  was  only 
following  in  the  footsteps  of  his  father,  whose  sole 
play,  'Captain  O 'Blunder,'  is  based  on  'Monsieur 
de  Pourceaugnac.'  But  Sheridan's  indebtedness  to 
Moliere  is  barely  visible.  It  is  almost  as  slight,  in- 
deed, as  the  borrowing  from  the  '  School  for  Scandal ' 
of  which  Madame  de  Girardin  was  guilty  for  her  fine 
comedy,  'Lady  Tartuffe.'  In  any  case,  Sheridan's 
indebtedness  is  less  to  the  '  Misanthrope  '  than  to 
'  Tartuffe  '  —  and  even  here  there  is  little  resemblance 
beyond  the  generic  likeness  of  all  hypocrites. 
This  resemblance,  such  as  it  is,  the  French  adapters 
of  the  '  School  for  Scandal '  chose  to  emphasize  by 
calling  their  version  the  '  Tartuffe  des  Mceurs.' 


122      THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL. 

Although  Sheridan  was  in  general  original  in  in- 
cident, he  unhesitatingly  made  use  of  any  happy 
phrases  or  effective  locutions  which  struck  his  fancy 
in  the  course  of  his  readings.  He  willingly  distilled 
the  perfume  from  a  predecessor's  flower ;  and  it  was 
with  pleasure  that  he  cut  and  set  the  gem  which  an 
earlier  writer  may  have  brought  to  light.  Witty  him- 
self, he  could  boldly  conquer  and  annex  the  wit  of 
others,  sure  to  increase  its  value  by  his  orderly  gov- 
ernment. This  can  perhaps  be  justified  on  the 
ground  that  the  rich  can  borrow  with  impunity ;  or, 
deeming  wit  his  patrimony,  Sheridan  may  have  felt 
that,  taking  it,  he  was  but  come  into  his  own  again ; 
as  Moliere  said,  "  I  take  my  own  where  I  find  it." 
In  the  preface  to  the  *  Rivals,'  however,  Sheridan  has 
chosen  to  meet  the  charge  of  plagiarism.  "  Faded 
ideas,"  he  said,  "  float  in  the  fancy  like  half-forgotten 
dreams,  and  the  imagination  in  its  fullest  enjoy- 
ments becomes  suspicious  of  its  offspring,  and 
doubts  whether  it  has  created  or  adopted."  It  is  a 
curious  coincidence  that  this  very  passage  is  quoted 
by  Burgoyne  to  explain  his  accidental  adoption,  in 
the  '  Heiress,'  of  an  image  of  Ariosto's  and  Rous- 
seau's, which  Byron  did  not  scruple  to  use  again  in 
his  monody  on  Sheridan  himself  :  — 

"  Sighing  that  Nature  formed  but  one  such  man, 
And  broke  the  die  —  in  moulding  Sheridan." 

In  the  *  School  for  Scandal '  the  construction,  the 
ordering  of  the  scenes,  the  development  of  the  elabo- 
rate plot,  is  much  better  than  in  the  comedies  of 
any  of  Sheridan's  contemporaries.  A  play  in  those 
days  need  not  reveal  a  complete  and  self-contained 
plot.  Great  laxity  of  episode  was  not  only  permitted, 
but  almost  praised ;  and  that  Sheridan,  with  a  sub- 


INTR  OD  UCTION.  1 2  3 

ject  which  lent  itself  so  readily  to  digression,  should 
have  limited  himself  as  he  did,  shows  his  exact 
appreciation  of  the  source  of  dramatic  effect.  But 
it  must  be  confessed  that  the  construction  of  the 
'  School  for  Scandal/  when  measured  by  our  modern 
standards,  seems  a  little  loose  —  a  little  diffuse,  per- 
haps. It  shows  the  welding  of  the  two  distinct 
plots.  There  can  hardly  be  seen  in  it  the  ruling  of 
a  dominant  idea,  subordinating  all  the  parts  to  the 
effect  of  the  whole.  But,  although  the  two  original 
motives  have  been  united  mechanically,  although 
they  have  not  flowed  and  fused  together  in  the  hot 
spurt  of  homogeneous  inspiration,  the  joining  has 
been  so  carefully  concealed,  and  the  whole  structure 
has  been  overlaid  with  so  much  wit,  that  few  people 
after  seeing  the  play  would  care  to  complain.  The 
wit  is  ceaseless  ;  and  wit  like  Sheridan's  would  cover 
sins  of  construction  far  greater  than  those  of  the 
'School  for  Scandal.'  It  is  "steeped  in  the  very 
brine  of  conceit,  and  sparkles  like  salt  in  the 
fire." 

In  his  conception  of  character  Sheridan  was  a  wit 
rather  than  a  humorist.  He  created  character  by  a 
distinctly  intellectual  process;  he  did  not  bring  it 
forth  out  of  the  depths,  as  it  were,  of  his  own  being. 
His  humour — fine  and  dry  as  it  was — was  the  humour 
of  the  wit.  He  had  little  or  none  of  the  rich  and 
juicy,  nay,  almost  oily  humour  of  Falstaff ,  for  instance. 
His  wit  was  the  wit  of  common-sense,  like  Jerrold's 
or  Sydney  Smith's  ;  it  was  not  wit  informed  with 
imagination,  like  Shakspere's  wit.  But  this  is  only 
to  say  again  that  Sheridan  was  not  one  of  the  few 
world-wide  and  all-embracing  geniuses.  He  was  one 
of  those  almost  equally  few  who  in  their  own  line, 
limited  though  it  may  be,  are  unsurpassed.  It  has 


124      THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL. 

been  said  that  poets  —  among  whom  dramatists  are 
entitled  to  stand  —  may  be  divided  into  three  classes  : 
those  who  can  say  one  thing  in  one  way — these  are 
the  great  majority ;  those  who  can  say  one  thing  in 
many  ways  —  even  these  are  not  so  many  as  they 
would  be  reckoned  generally  ;  and  those  who  can 
say  many  things  in  many  ways  —  these  are  the 
chosen  few,  the  scant  half-dozen  who  hold  the  higher 
peak  of  Parnassus.  In  the  front  rank  of  the  sec- 
ond class  stood  Sheridan.  The  one  thing  he  had 
was  wit  —  and  of  this  in  all  its  forms  he  was  master. 
His  wit  in  general  had  a  metallic  smartness  and  a 
crystalline  coldness  ;  it  rarely  lifts  us  from  the  real 
to  the  ideal ;  and  yet  the  whole  comedy  is  in  one 
sense,  at  least,  idealized;  it  bears,  in  fact,  the  re- 
semblance to  real  life  that  a  well-cut  diamond  has  to 
a  drop  of  water. 

Yet,  the  play  is  not  wholly  cold.  Sheridan's  wit 
could  be  genial  as  well  as  icy  —  of  which  there  could 
be  no  better  proof  than  the  success  with  which  he 
has  enlisted  our  sympathies  for  the  characters  of  his 
comedy.  Sir  Peter  Teazle  is  an  old  fool,  who  has 
married  a  young  wife  ;  but  we  are  all  glad  when  we 
see  a  prospect  of  his  future  happiness.  Lady  Teazle 
is  flighty  and  foolish ;  and  yet  we  cannot  help  but 
like  her.  Charles  we  all  wish  well;  and  as  for 
Joseph,  we  feel  from  the  first  so  sure  of  his  ultimate 
discomfiture,  that  we  are  ready  to  let  him  off  with 
the  light  punishment  of  exposure.  There  are,  it  is 
true,  here  and  there  blemishes  to  be  detected  on  the 
general  surface,  an  occasional  hardness  of  feeling, 
an  apparent  lack,  at  times,  of  taste  and  delicacy  — 
for  instance,  the  bloodthirsty  way  in  which  the  scan- 
dal-mongers pounce  upon  their  prey,  the  almost  brutal 
expression  by  Lady  Teazle  of  her  willingness  to  be  a 


INTRODUCTION.  12$ 

widow,  the  ironical  speech  of  Charles  after  the  fall  of 
the  screen  ;  but  these  are  more  the  fault  of  the  age 
than  of  the  author. 

The  great  defect  of  the  '  School  for  Scandal '  — 
the  one  thing  which  shows  the  difference  between  a 
comic  writer  of  the  type  of  Sheridan  and  a  great 
dramatist  like  Shakspere  —  is  the  unvarying  wit  of 
the  characters.  And  not  only  are  the  characters  all 
witty,  but  they  all  talk  alike.  Their  wit  is  Sheridan's 
wit,  which  is  very  good  wit  indeed  ;  but  it  is  Sheri- 
dan's own,  and  not  Sir  Peter  Teazle's,  or  Backbite's, 
or  Careless's,  or  Lady  Sneerwell's.  It  is  one  man 
in  his  time  playing  many  parts.  It  is  the  one  voice 
always ;  though  the  hands  be  the  hands  of  Esau,  the 
voice  is  the  voice  of  Jacob.  And  this  quick  wit  and 
ready  repartee  is  not  confined  to  the  ladies  and  gen- 
tlemen; the  master  is  no  better  off  than  the  man,  and 
Careless  airs  the  same  wit  as  Charles.  As  Sheridan 
said  in  the  '  Critic,'  he  was  "  not  for  making  slavish 
distinctions  in  a  free  country,  and  giving  all  the  fine 
language  to  the  upper  sort  of  people."  It  is  a  fact 
that  the  characters  all  talk  too  well ;  the  comedy 
would  be  far  less  entertaining  if  they  did  not.  The 
stage  is  not  life,  and  it  is  not  meant  to  be ;  a  mere 
transcript  of  ordinary  talk  would  be  insufferable. 
Condensation* 'is  necessary  ;  and  selection  also,  and 
a  heightening  and  brightening  of  talk.  No  doubt 
Sheridan  pushed  this  license  to  its  utmost  limit,  — 
at  times  even  beyond  it ;  but  in  consequence  his 
comedy,  if  a  little  less  artistic  in  the  reading,  is  far 
more  lively  in  the  acting.  It  has  been  said  that  in 
Shakspere  we  find  not  the  language  we  would  use 
in  the  situations,  but  the  language  we  should  wish 
to  use  —  that  we  should  talk  so  if  we  could.  We 
cannot  all  of  us  be  as  witty  as  the,  characters  of  the 


126      THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL. 

1  School  for  Scandal/  but  who  of  us  would  not  if  he 
could  ? 

Wit  of  this  kind  is  not  to  be  had  without  labour. 
Because  Sheridan  sometimes  borrowed,  it  does  not 
follow  that  he  was  incapable  of  originating ;  or, 
because  he  always  prepared  when  possible,  that  he 
was  incapable  of  impromptu.  But  he  believed  in 
doing  his  best  on  all  occasions.  If  caught  unawares, 
his  natural  wit  was  ready  ;  if,  however,  he  had  time 
for  preparation,  he  spared  no  pains.  He  grudged 
no  labour.  He  was  willing  to  heat  and  hammer  again 
and  again  —  to  file,  and  polish,  and  adjust,  and  oil, 
until  the  delicate  machinery  ran  smoothly,  and  to  the 
satisfaction  even  of  his  fastidious  eye.  Even  in  his 
early  youth  Sheridan  had  the  faculty  of  toiling  over 
his  work  to  his  immediate  improvement ;  his  friend 
Halhed  complimented  him  on  this  in  a  letter  written 
in  1770.  As  Sheridan  himself  said  in  two  lines  of 
'Clio's  Protest,'  published  in  1770  —  a  couplet  often 
credited  to  Rogers  — 

"You  write  with  ease,  to  show  your  breeding, 
But  easy  writing  's  curst  hard  reading." 

The  <  School  for  Scandal '  was  not  easy  writing  then, 
and  it  is  not  hard  reading  now.  Not  content  with  a 
wealth  of  wit  alone  —  for  he  did  not  hold  with  the 
old  maxim  which  says  that  jests,  like  salt,  should  be 
used  sparingly;  he  salted  with  a  lavish  hand,  and 
his  plays  have  perhaps  been  preserved  to  us  by  this 
Attic  salt  —  he  sought  the  utmost  refinement  of 
language.  An  accomplished  speaker  himself,  he 
smoothed  every  sentence  till  it  ran  trippingly  on  the 
tongue.  His  dialogue  is  easy  to  speak  as  his  songs 
are  easy  to  sing.  To  add  in  any  way  to  the  lustre 
and  brilliance  of  the  slightest  sentence  of  the  *  School 


INTRODUCTION.  I2/ 

for  Scandal,'  to  burnish  a  bit  of  dialogue,  or 
brighten  a  soliloquy,  could  never  cost  Sheridan,  lazy 
though  he  was,  too  much  labour.  "  This  kind  of 
writing,"  as  M.  Taine  says,  "  artificial  and  condensed 
as  the  satires  of  La  Bruyere,  is  like  a  cut  vial,  into 
which  the  author  has  distilled,  without  reservation, 
all  his  reflections,  his  reading,  his  understanding." 
That  this  is  true  of  Sheridan  is  obvious.  In  the 
'  School  for  Scandal '  he  has  done  the  best  he  could  ; 
he  put  into  it  all  he  had  in  him  ;  it  is  the  complete 
expression  of  his  genius  ;  beyond  it  he  could  not  go. 
After  its  first  great  success,  the  '  School  for  Scandal ' 
was  not  long  in  crossing  to  America ;  and  its  usual 
luck  followed  it  to  these  shores.  Ireland,  in  his  ad- 
mirable '  Records  of  the  New  York  Stage,'  which 
it  is  always  a  duty  and  a  pleasure  to  praise,  noted 
what  was  probably  its  first  performance  in  New  York, 
on  the  evening  of  December  16,  1785,  and  on  this 
occasion  the  comedy  was  cast  to  the  full  strength 
of  the  best  company  which  had  been  then  seen  in 
America.  Its  success  was  instant  and  emphatic ; 
and  from  that  day  to  this  it  has  never  ceased  to  hold 
a  first  place  among  acting  plays.  It  became  at  once 
the  standard  by  which  other  successful  plays  were  to 
be  measured.  Comedies  were  announced  as  "  equal 
to  the  *  School  for  Scandal,'  or  to  any  play  of  the 
century,  the  '  School  for  Scandal '  not  excepted." 
This  sort  of  "  odorous  comparison  "  continued  to 
obtain  for  many  years,  and  when  some  indiscreet 
admirer  likened  Mrs.  Mowatt's  *  Fashion  '  to  Sheri- 
dan's comedy,  Poe  took  occasion  to  point  out  that 
the  general  tone  of  '  Fashion '  was  adopted  from  the 
1  School  for  Scandal,'  to  which,  however,  it  bore,  he 
said,  just  such  affinity  as  the  shell  of  the  locust  to  the 
locust  that  tenants  it,  "  as  the  spectrum  of  a  Congreve 


128  THE   SCHOOL  FOR   SCANDAL. 

rocket  to  the  Congreve  rocket  itself."  It  does  not, 
however,  need  a  cruel  critic  to  show  us  how  unfair  it 
was  to  compare  Mrs.  Mowatt's  pretty  but  pretentious 
play  with  the  Congreve  rockets  and  the  Congreve 
wit  of  Sheridan's  masterpiece.  That  the  '  School  for 
Scandal'  was  the  favourite  play  of  Washington,  who 
was  fond  of  the  theatre,  has  been  recorded  by  Mrs. 
Whitelock  (the  sister  of  Sarah  Siddons  and  of  John 
Kemble,  and  for  a  time  the  leading  tragic  actress  of 
America).  And  in  one  point  in  particular  are  these 
last-century  performances  in  this  country  of  especial 
interest  to  the  student  of  American  dramatic  literature. 
On  April  16,  1786,  was  first  acted  in  this  city  the 
1  Contrast/  a  comedy  in  five  acts,  by  Royal  Tyler, 
afterward  Chief  Justice  of  Vermont.  It  was  the  first 
American  play  performed  on  the  public  stage  by  pro- 
fessional comedians.  It  contained  in  Jonathan,  acted 
by  Wignell,  the  first  of  stage  Yankees,  and  the  pre- 
cursor, therefore,  of  Asa  Trenchard,  Colonel  Mul- 
berry Sellers,  and  Judge  Bardwell  Slote.  Perhaps 
a  short  extract  from  the  play,  which  was  published 
in  1790,  will  show  its  connection  with  the  *  School  for 
Scandal.'  Jonathan,  green  and  innocent,  and  hold- 
ing the  theatre  to  be  the  "  devil's  drawing  room," 
gets  into  it,  however,  in  the  belief  that  he  is  going 
to  see  a  conjurer  :  — 

Jenny.   Did  you  see  the  man  with  his  tricks  ? 

Jonathan.  Why,  I  vow,  as  I  was  looking  out  for  him,  they 
lifted  up  a  great  green  cloth  and  let  us  look  right  into  the  next 
neighbour's  house.  Have  you  a  good  many  houses  in  New 
York  made  in  that  'ere  way  ? 

Jenny.   Not  many.     But  did  you  see  the  family? 

Jonathan.   Yes,  swamp  it,  I  seed  the  family. 

Jenny.    Well,  and  how  did  you  like  them  ? 

Jonathan.  Well,  I  vow,  they  were  pretty  much  like  other 
families  ;  there  was  a  poor,  good-natured  curse  of  a  husband, 
and  a  sad  rantipole  of  a  wife. 


INTRODUCTION.  I2Q 

Jenny.   But  did  you  see  no  other  folks  ? 

Jonathan.  Yes ;  there  was  one  youngster,  they  called  him 
Mr.  Joseph  ;  he  talked  as  sober  and  as  pious  as  a  minister  ; 
but,  like  some  ministers  that  I  know,  he  was  a  sly  tike  in  his 
heart,  for  all  that  ;  he  was  going  to  ask  a  young  woman  to 
spark  it  with  him,  and  —  the  Lord  have  mercy  on  my  soul  —  she 
was  another  man's  wife  ! 


It  was  in  America  also  that  two  of  the  most  note- 
worthy incidents  in  the  career  of  the  '  School  for 
Scandal '  occurred.  One  took  place  during  a  visit  to 
this  country  of  Macready,  who,  early  accustomed 
to  enact  the  heavy  villains  of  the  stage,  took  a  fancy 
to  the  part  of  Joseph,  and,  not  finding  it  as  promi- 
nent as  he  liked,  sought  to  rectify  this  defect  by 
boldly  cutting  down  the  other  characters ;  and  thus 
with  the  excision  of  the  scandal-scene,  the  picture- 
scene,  and  several  other  scenes,  the  *  School  for 
Scandal,'  reduced  to  three  acts,  was  played  as  an 
afterpiece,  with  Macready,  very  imperfect  in  the 
words  of  the  part,  as  Joseph,  dressed  in  the  black 
coat  and  trousers  of  the  nineteenth  century.  It  may 
be  remembered  that  Macready's  greater  predecessor 
as  the  chief  of  English  tragedians,  John  Philip 
Kemble,  was  also  wont  to  act  in  the  '  School  for 
Scandal ' ;  but  he  chose  to  appear  as  the  more  jovial 
and  younger  of  the  Surfaces,  and  his  performance 
of  the  careless  hero  was  known  as  "  Charles's 
Martyrdom." 

The  second  noteworthy  incident  was  the  perform- 
ance of  the  '  School  for  Scandal,'  on  the  centenary 
of  its  first  production,  on  May  8,  1877,  at  the  Grand 
Opera  House,  Toronto,  in  the  presence  of  the  Gov- 
ernor General  of  Canada,  Lord  Dufferin,  the  great- 
grandson  of  the  author. 

In  the  same  year  that  this  memorable  performance 


130  THE   SCHOOL  FOR   SCANDAL. 

took  place  in  a  former  French  province,  Miss  Gene- 
vieve  Ward,  an  American  actress,  appeared  as  Lady 
Teazle  in  Paris  in  a  French  version  ;  and  the  fore- 
most of  Parisian  dramatic  critics,  Francisque  Sarcey 
seized  the  opportunity  for  a  most  interesting  appre- 
ciation of  the  play.  He  considered  it  one  of  the 
best  of  the  second  class,  and,  as  in  his  view  the  first 
class  would  contain  few  plays  but  those  of  Shakspere 
and  Moliere,  this  is  high  praise.  He  ranked  the 
1  School  for  Scandal '  with  the  '  Mariage  de  Figaro,' 
and  instituted  the  comparison  of  Sheridan  with 
Beaumarchais,  which  Taine  had  already  attempted. 
But  Sarcey  held  a  more  just  as  well  as  a  more  favour- 
able opinion  of  the  '  School  for  Scandal '  than  Taine. 
An  earlier  French  critic,  Villemain,  who  edited  a 
close  translation  of  the  play  for  the  series  of  foreign 
masterpieces,  declared  it  to  be  one  of  the  most 
amusing  and  most  wittily-comic  plays  which  can 
anywhere  be  seen,  and  he  hit  upon  one  of  its  un- 
doubted merits  when  he  pointed  out  that  its  "  wit  is 
so  radically  comic  that  it  can  be  translated,  which, 
as  all  know,  is  the  most  perilous  trial  for  wit  pos- 
sible." Sarcey  informed  us  that  the  '  School  for 
Scandal '  is  now  and  has  been  for  years,  used  as  a 
text-book  in  French  schools,  and  that  he  himself 
was  taught  to  read  English  out  of  Sheridan's  play. 
Such  was  also  the  opinion  of  M.  H6ge'sippe  Cler, 
who  published  a  French  translation  of  the  *  School 
for  Scandal '  in  1879,  ^h  a  preface,  in  which  he 
declared  that  Sheridan's  comedy,  was  particularly 
French,  nay,  even  Parisian,  and  that  it  is  absolutely 
harmless  and  fitted  exactly  for  use  in  teaching  in 
schools  for  girls.  Oddly  enough  this  is  the  exact 
reverse  of  the  opinion  of  the  French  critics  of  a 
century  ago.  In  1 788  the  auction  and  screen  scenes 


INTR  OD  UCTION  1 3 1 

had  been  introduced  into  a  little  piece  called  the 
'  Deux  Neveux ' ;  a  year  later  a  translation  in  French 
by  Delille,  with  the  permission,  apparently,  of  Sheri- 
dan himself,  was  published  in  London.  Certain 
episodes  were  utilized  in  the  *  Portraits  de  Famille,' 
the  '  Deux  Cousins  '  and  '  Valsain  et  Florville  ' ;  and 
finally,  in  1789,  a  version  of  the  whole  play  by 
Pluteau  was  acted  as  '  L'Homme  Sentimental J  — 
but  the  subject  was  too  risky,  and  the  scenes  were 
too  broad  for  the  fastidious  taste  of  the  Parisians. 
Even  Grimm  was  shocked  by  it — and  one  would 
think  it  took  much  to  shock  Grimm.  A  second 
adaptation  was  produced  at  the  Theatre  Francais ; 
it  was  called  the  '  Tartuffe  des  Mceurs.'  A  few 
years  later,  yet  another  version,  '  L'Ecole  du  Scan- 
dale,'  by  two  melodramatic  writers,  Crosnier  and 
Jouslin  de  la  Salle,  was  acted  at  the  Porte  St.-Martin 
Theatre,  with  the  pathetic  Mme.  Dorval  as  Milady 
Tizle" .  Oddly  enough  it  was  Mme.  Dorval's  husband, 
Merle,  who  was  the  cause  of  the  first  performance 
in  France  of  the  '  School  for  Scandal '  in  English  by 
English  actors.  Merle  was  one  of  the  managers  of 
the  Port  St.-Martin  Theatre  in  1822  ;  and  he  ar- 
ranged for  a  series  of  performances  by  the  company 
of  the  Brighton  Theatre,  then  managed  by  Mr.  Pen- 
ley.  The  British  comedians  opened  their  season 
with  '  Othello  ' ;  but  it  was  only  seven  years  after 
Waterloo,  and  Shakspere  was  stormily  received. 
For  the  second  performance  Sheridan  took  Shak- 
spere's  place,  and  the  '  School  for  Scandal '  was 
announced  for  Friday,  August  2,  1822.  But  the  day 
was  unlucky,  and  the  mob  which  took  possession  of 
the  theatre  would  not  allow  the  English  comedy  to 
be  acted  at  all.  It  is  interesting  to  note  the  change 
which  took  place  in  France  in  the  short  space  of  five 


132  THE  SCHOOL  FOR   SCANDAL. 

years.  In  1827,  when  the  Covent  Garden  company 
appeared  at  the  Odeon  Theatre,  they  met  with  a 
cordial  welcome ;  and  they  began  their  season  with 
Sheridan's  other  comedy,  the  '  Rivals.' 

The  Germans  were  not  behind  the  French  in  the 
enjoyment  of  the  '  School  for  Scandal.'  Shroder, 
the  actor  and  author,  went  from  Vienna  to  London 
—  no  small  journey,  in  the  eighteenth  century  — 
expressly  for  the  purpose  of  seeing  it  acted.  He 
understood  English  well,  and  attended  every  per- 
formance of  the  piece  while  he  was  in  England.  On 
his  return  to  Vienna,  he  produced  an  adaptation  — 
for  it  is  such,  and  not  a  translation,  though  the  spirit 
of  the  original  is  well  preserved  —  which  has  held 
the  German  stage  ever  since.  The  texture  of  the 
'  School  for  Scandal,'  its  solidity  of  situation,  its 
compact  and  easily  comprehensible  plot,  and  its 
ceaseless  play  of  wit,  —  "  a  sort  of  El  Dorado  of  wit," 
as  Moore  calls  it,  "  where  the  precious  metal  is 
thrown  about  by  all  classes  as  carelessly  as  if  they 
had  not  the  least  idea  of  its  value,"  — these  were  all 
qualities  sure  to  commend  it  to  German  audiences 
as  to  French.  Macready  records  himself  as  having 
seen  in  Venice  an  Italian  version  of  the  play  —  that 
by  Carpani,  probably  —  which  could  hardly  have  fol- 
lowed the  original  as  closely  as  was  to  be  desired ; 
but  the  strength  of  the  situations  and  the  contrast  of 
the  characters  would  always  carry  the  piece  through 
in  any  language  and  in  spite  of  any  alterations. 
There  are  translations  of  the  '  School  for  Scandal ' 
in  many  other  languages.  In  1877  it  was  acted 
with  success  in  Dutch  at  the  Hague ;  and  in  1884  a 
Gujarati  version,  adapted  to  modern  Parsee  life  by 
Mr.  K.  N.  Kabrajee,  was  produced,  also  with  suc- 
cess, at  the  Esplanade  Theatre  in  Bombay. 


THE   SCHOOL    FOR   SCANDAL. 


DRAMATIS   PERSONS, 

AS  ORIGINALLY  ACTED  AT  DRURY-LANE  THEATRIC 
MAY  8,  1777. 


SIR  PETER  TEAZLE Mr.  King. 

SIR  OLIVER  SURFACE          ....  Mr.  Yates. 

SIR  HARRY  BUMPER   .        .        .        .        .  Mr.  Gawdny. 

SIR  BENJAMIN  BACKBITE    ....  Mr.  Dodd. 

JOSEPH  SURFACE Mr.  Palmer. 

CHARLES  SURFACE Mr.  Smith. 

CARELESS     . Mr.Farren. 

SNAKE Mr.  Packer. 

CRABTREE Mr.  Parsons. 

ROWLEY Mr.  Aickin. 

MOSES Mr.  Baddeley^ 

TRIP     ......«•  Mr.  Lamash. 

LADY  TEAZLE Mrs.  Abington, 

LADY  SNEERWELL Miss  Sherry. 

MRS.  CANDOUR Miss  Pope. 

MARIA Miss  P.  Hopit^ 

Gentlemen,  Maid,  and  Servants. 


SCENE  —  LONDON. 


A    PORTRAIT: 

ADDRESSED  TO  MRS.  CREWE,  WITH   THE  COMEDY 
OF  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL. 

.BY  R.  B.  SHERIDAN,  ESQ. 


TELL  me,  ye  prim  adepts  in  Scandal's  school, 
Who  rail  by  precept  and  detract  by  rule, 
Lives  there  no  character,  so  tried,  so  known, 
So  deck'd  with  grace,  and  so  unlike  your  own, 
That  even  you  assist  her  fame  to  raise, 
Approve  by  envy,  and  by  silence  praise ! 
Attend  !  —  a  model  shall  attract  your,  view  — 
Daughters  of  calumny,  I  summon  you  ! 
You  shall  decide  if  this  a  portrait  prove, 
Or  fond  creation  of  the  Muse  and  Love. 
Attend,  ye  virgin  critics,  shrewd  and  sage, 
Ye  matron  censors  of  this  childish  age, 
Whose  peering  eye  and  wrinkled  front  declare 
A  fix'd  antipathy  to  young  and  fair ; 
By  cunning,  cautious  ;  or  by  nature,  cold, 
In  maiden  madness,  virulently  bold  !  — 
Attend,  ye  skill'd  to  coin  the  precious  tale. 
Creating  proof,  where  innuendoes  fail ! 
Whose  practised  memories,  cruelly  exact, 
Omit  no  circumstance,  except  the  fact !  — 
Attend,  all  ye  who  boast,  —  or  old  or  young,  — 
The  living  libel  of  a  slanderous  tongue ! 

135 


136  THE   SCHOOL   FOR   SCANDAL. 

So  shall  my  theme  as  far  contrasted  be, 

As  saints  by  fiends,  or  hymns  by  calumny. 

Come,  gentle  Amoret  (for  'neath  that  name 

In  worthier  verse  is  sung  thy  beauty's  fame)  ; 

Come  —  for  but  thee  who  seeks  the  muse  ?  and  while 

Celestial  blushes  check  thy  conscious  smile, 

With  timid  grace,  and  hesitating  eye, 

The  perfect  model,  which  I  boast,  supply :  — 

Vain  Muse  !  could'st  thou  the  humblest  sketch  create 

Of  her,  or  slightest  charm  could'st  imitate  — 

Could  thy  blest  strain  in  kindred  colours  trace 

The  faintest  wonder  of  her  form  and  face  — 

Poets  would  study  the  immortal  line, 

And  Reynolds  own  his  art  subdued  by  thine, 

That  art,  which  well  might  added  lustre  give 

To  Nature's  best,  and  Heaven's  superlative : 

On  Granbfs  cheek  might  bid  new  glories  rise, 

Or  point  a  purer  beam  from  Devon's  eyes ! 

Hard  is  the  task  to  shape  that  beauty's  praise, 

Whose  judgment  scorns  the  homage  flattery  pays ! 

But  praising  Amoret  we  cannot  err, 

No  tongue  o'ervalues  Heaven,  or  flatters  her ! 

Yet  she  by  fate's  perverseness  —  she  alone 

Would  doubt  our  truth,  nor  deem  such  praise  her  own. 

Adorning  fashion,  unadorn'd  by  dress, 

Simple  from  taste,  and  not  from  carelessness ; 

Discreet  in  gesture,  in  deportment  mild, 

Not  stiff  with  prudence,  nor  uncouthly  wild : 

No  state  has  Amoret ;  no  studied  mien  ; 

She  frowns  no  goddess,  and  she  moves  no  queen. 

The  softer  charm  that  in  her  manner  lies 

Is  framed  to  captivate,  yet  not  surprise ; 

It  justly  suits  the  expression  of  her  face,  — 

'T  is  less  than  dignity,  and  more  than  grace! 

On  her  pure  cheek  the  native  hue  is  such, 


A   PORTRAIT.  137 

That,  form'd  by  Heaven  to  be  admired  so  much, 
The  hand  divine,  with  a  less  partial  care, 
Might  well  have  fix'd  a  fainter  crimson  there, 
And  bade  the  gentle  inmate  of  her  breast  — 
Inshrined  Modesty  —  supply  the  rest. 
But  who  the  peril  of  her  lips  shall  paint  ? 
Strip  them  of  smiles  —  still,  still  all  words  are  faint, 
But  moving  Love  himself  appears  to  teach 
Their  action,  though  denied  to  rule  her  speech ; 
And  thou  who  seest  her  speak,  and  dost  not  hear, 
Mourn  not  her  distant  accents  'scape  thine  ear  ; 
Viewing  those  lips,  thou  still  may'st  make  pretence 
To  judge  of  what  she  says,  and  swear  't  is  sense : 
Clothed   with    such    grace,   with    such    expression 

fraught, 

They  move  in  meaning,  and  they  pause  in  thought ! 
But  dost  thou  farther  watch,  with  charm 'd  surprise, 
The  mild  irresolution  of  her  eyes, 
Curious  to  mark  how  frequent  they  repose, 
In  brief  eclipse  and  momentary  close  — 
Ah !  seest  thou  not  an  ambush'd  Cupid  there, 
Too  tim'rous  of  his  charge,  with  jealous  care 
Veils  and  unveils  those  beams  of  heavenly  light, 
Too  full,  too  fatal  else,  for  mortal  sight? 
Nor  yet,  such  pleasing  vengeance  fond  to  meet, 
In  pard'ning  dimples  hope  a  safe  retreat. 
What  though  her  peaceful  breast  should  ne'er  allow 
Subduing  frowns  to  arm  her  alter'd  brow, 
By  Love,  I  swear,  and  by  his  gentle  wiles, 
More  fatal  still  the  mercy  of  her  smiles  ! 
Thus  lovely,  thus  adorn 'd,  possessing  all 
Of  bright  or  fair  that  can  to  woman  fall, 
The  height  of  vanity  might  well  be  thought 
Prerogative  in  her,  and  Nature's  fault. 
Yet  gentle  Amoret,  in  mind  supreme 


138  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL. 

As  well  as  charms,  rejects  the  vainer  theme  ; 

And,  half  mistrustful  of  her  beauty's  store, 

She  barbs  with  wit  those  darts  too  keen  before  :  — 

Read  in  all  knowledge  that  her  sex  should  reach, 

Though  Greville,  or  the  Muse,  should  deign  to  teach, 

Fond  to  improve,  nor  timorous  to  discern 

How  far  it  is  a  woman's  grace  to  learn  ; 

In  Millar's  dialect  she  would  not  prove 

Apollo's  priestess,  but  Apollo's  love, 

Graced  by  those  signs  which  truth  delights  to  own, 

The  timid  blush,  and  mild  submitted  tone : 

Whate'er  she  says,  though  sense  appear  throughout, 

Displays  the  tender  hue  of  female  doubt ; 

Deck'd  with  that  charm,  how  lovely  wit  appears, 

How  graceful  science,  when  that  robe  she  wears ! 

Such  too  her  talents,  and  her  bent  of  mind, 

As  speak  a  sprightly  heart  by  thought  refined  : 

A  taste  for  mirth,  by  contemplation  school 'd, 

A  turn  for  ridicule,  by  candour  ruled, 

A  scorn  of  folly,  which  she  tries  to  hide ; 

An  awe  of  talent,  which  she  owns  with  pride ! 

Peace,  idle  Muse  !  —  no  more  thy  strain  prolong, 
But  yield  a  theme,  thy  warmest  praises  wrong  ; 
Just  to  her  merit,  though  thou  canst  not  raise 
Thy  feeble  verse,  behold  th'  acknowledged  praise 
Has  spread  conviction  through  the  envious  train, 
And  cast  a  fatal  gloom  o'er  Scandal's  reign  ! 
And  lo  !  each  pallid  hag,  with  blister'd  tongue, 
Mutters  assent  to  all  thy  zeal  has  sung— 
Owns  all  the  colours  just  —  the  outline  true, 
Thee  my  inspirer,  and  my  model — CREWE! 


PROLOGUE. 

WRITTEN  BY  MR.  GARRICK. 


A  SCHOOL  for  Scandal !  tell  me,  I  beseech  you, 
Needs  there  a  school  this  modish  art  to  teach  you? 
No  need  of  lessons  now,  the  knowing  think ; 
We  might  as  well  be  taught  to  eat  and  drink. 
Caused  by  a  dearth  of  scandal,  should  the  vapours 
Distress  our  fair  ones  —  let  them  read  the  papers  ; 
Their  powerful  mixtures  such  disorders  hit ; 
Crave  what  you  will  —  there  's  quantum  sufficit. 
"  Lord  !  "  cries  my  Lady  Wormwood '(who  loves  tattle, 
And  puts  much  salt  and  pepper  in  her  prattle), 
Just  risen  at  noon,  all  night  at  cards  when  threshing 
Strong  tea  and  scandal —  "  Bless  me,  how  refreshing  ! 
Give  me  the  papers,  Lisp  —  how  bold  and  free  ! 

[Sips. 

Last  mght  Lord  L.  \Sips\  was -caught  with  Lady  D. 
For  aching  heads  what  charming  sal  volatile  !   [Sips. 
If  Mrs.  B.  will  still  continue  flirting, 
We  hope  she  7/  DRAW  or  we  '//  UNDRAW  the  curtain. 
Fine  satire,  poz  —  in  public  all  abuse  it, 
But,  by  ourselves  [Sips'],  our  praise  we  can't  refuse  it. 
Now,  Lisp,  read  you  —  there,  at  that  dash  and  star." 
"  Yes,  ma'am  —  A  certain  lord  had  best  beware. 
Who  lives  not  twenty  miles  from  Grosvenor  Square  ; 
For,  should  he  Lady  W.  find  willing, 


I4O  PROLOGUE. 

Wormwood  is    bitter" '•     — "  Oh !    that's    me!    the 

villain ! 

Throw  it  behind  the  fire,  and  never  more 
Let  that  vile  paper  come  within  my  door." 
Thus  at  our  friends  we  laugh,  who  feel  the  dart ; 
To  reach  our  feelings,  we  ourselves  must  smart. 
Is  our  young  bard  so  young,  to  think  that  he 
Can  stop  the  full  spring-tide  of  calumny  ? 
Knows  he  the  world  so  little,  and  its  trade  ? 
Alas  !  the  devil 's  sooner  raised  than  laid. 
So  strong,  so  swift,  the  monster  there  's  no  gagging : 
Cut  Scandal's  head  off,  still  the  tongue  is  wagging. 
Proud  of  your  smiles  once  lavishly  bestow'd, 
Again  our  young  Don  Quixote  takes  the  road ; 
To  show  his  gratitude  he  draws  his  pen, 
And  seeks  this  hydra,  Scandal,  in  his  den. 
For  your  applause  all  perils  he  would  through  — 
He  '11  fight  —  that 's  write  —  a  cavalliero  true, 
Till  every  drop  of  blood  —  that 's  ink — is  spilt  for  you. 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL. 

A   COMEDY. 


ACT   I. 

SCENE  I.  —  LADY  SNEERWELL'S  Dressing-room. 

LADY  SNEERWELL   discovered  at  the   dressing-table; 
SNAKE  drinking  chocolate. 

Lady  Sneer.  The  paragraphs,  you  say,  Mr.  Snake, 
were  all  inserted  ? 

Snake.  They  were,  madam  ;  and,  as  I  copied  them 
myself  in  a  feigned  hand,  there  can  be  no  suspicion 
whence  they  came. 

Lady  Sneer.  Did  you  circulate  the  report  of  Lady 
Brittle 's  intrigue  with  Captain  Boastall  ? 

Snake.  That 's  in  as  fine  a  train  as  your  ladyship 
could  wish.  In  the  common  course  of  things,  I  think 
it  must,  reach  Mrs.  Clackitt's  ears  within  four-and- 
twenty  hours;  and  then,  you  know,  the  business  is 
as  good  as  done. 

Lady  Sneer.  Why,  truly,  Mrs.  Clackitt  has  a  very 
pretty  talent,  and  a  great  deal  of  industry. 

Snake.  True,  madam,  and  has  been  tolerably  suc- 
cessful in  her  day.  To  my  knowledge,  she  has  been 
the  cause  of  six  matches  being  broken  off,  and  three 
141 


142  SHERIDAN'S   COMEDIES. 

sons  being  disinherited;  of  four  forced  elopements, 
and  as  many  close  confinements  ;  nine  separate  main- 
tenances, and  two  divorces.  Nay,  I  have  more  than 
once  traced  her  causing  a  tete-a-tete  in  the  "  Town 
and  Country  Magazine,"  when  the  parties,  perhaps, 
had  never  seen  each  other's  face  before  in  the  course 
of  their  lives. 

Lady  Sneer.  She  certainly  has  talents,  but  her  man- 
ner is  gross. 

Snake.  'T  is  very  true.  She  generally  designs 
well,  has  a  free  tongue  and  a  bold  invention  ;  but  her 
colouring  is  too  dark,  and  her  outlines  often  extrava- 
gant. She  wants  that  delicacy  of  tint,  and  mellowness 
of  sneer,  which  distinguish  your  ladyship's  scandal. 

Lady  Sneer.    You  are  partial,  Snake. 

Snake.  Not  in  the  least ;  everybody  allows  that 
Lady  Sneerwell  can  do  more  with  a  word  or  look  than 
many  can  with  the  most  laboured  detail,  even  when 
they  happen  to  have  a  little  truth  on  their  side  to 
support  it. 

Lady  Sneer.    Yes,  my  dear  Snake  ;   and  I  am  no 

hypocrite  to  deny  the  satisfaction  I  reap  from  the 

success   of   my  efforts.      Wounded   myself,    in   the 

early  part  of  my  life,  by  the  envenomed  tongue  of 

i  slander,  I  confess  I  have  since  known  no  pleasure 

j  equal  to  the  reducing  others  to  the  level  of  my  own 

i  reputation. 

Snake.  Nothing  can  be  more  natural.  But,  La^y 
Sneerwell,  there  is  one  affair  in  which  you  have 
lately  employed  me,  wherein,  I  confess,  I  am  at  a  loss 
to  guess  your  motives. 

Lady  Sneer.  I  conceive  you  mean  with  respect  to 
my  neighbour,  Sir  Peter  Teazle,  and  his  family  ? 

Snake.  I  do.  Here  are  two  young  men,  to  whom 
Sir  Peter  has  acted  as  a  kind  of  guardian  since  their 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL.  143 

father's  death  ;  the  eldest  possessing  the  most  ami- 
able character,  and  universally  well  spoken  of  —  the 
youngest,  the  most  dissipated  and  extravagant  young 
fellow  in  the  kingdom,  without  friends  or  character : 
the  former  an  avowed  admirer  of  your  ladyship,  and 
apparently  your  favourite ;  the  latter  attached  to 
Maria,  Sir  Peter's  ward,  and  confessedly  beloved  by 
her.  Now,  on  the  face  of  these  circumstances,  it  is 
utterly  unaccountable  to  me,  why  you,  the  widow  of 
a  city  knight,  with  a  good  jointure,  should  not  close 
with  the  passion  of  a  man  of  such  character  and  ex- 
pectations as  Mr.  Surface  ;  and  more  so  why  you 
should  be  so  uncommonly  earnest  to  destroy  the 
mutual  attachment  subsisting  between  his  brother 
Charles  and  Maria. 

Lady  Sneer.  Then,  at  once  to  unravel  this  mystery, 
I  must  inform  you  that  love  has  no  share  whatever 
in  the  intercourse  between  Mr.  Surface  and  me. 

Snake.    No  ! 

Lady  Sneer.  His  real  attachment  is  to  Maria,  or 
her  fortune  ;  but,  finding  in  his  brother  a  favoured 
rival,  he  has  been  obliged  to  mask  his  pretensions, 
and  profit  by  my  assistance. 

Snake.  Yet  still  I  am  more  puzzled  why  you  should 
interest  yourself  in  his  success. 

Lady  Sneer.  Heavens  !  how  dull  you  are  !  Cannot 
you  surmise  the  weakness  which  I  hitherto,  through 
shame,  have  concealed  even  from  you  ?  Must  I  con- 
fess that  Charles  -ithat  libertine,  that  extravagant, 
that  bankrupt  in  fortune  and  reputation/—  that  he  it 
is  for  whom  I  am  thus  anxious  and  malicious,  and  to 
gain  whom  I  would  sacrifice  everything  ? 

Snake.  Now,  indeed,  your  conduct  appears  consist- 
ent :  but  how  came  you  and  Mr.  Surface  so  confi- 
dential ? 


144  SHERIDAN'S   COMEDIES. 

Lady  Sneer.  For  our  mutual  interest.  LL  have 
i  found  him  out  a  long  time  since.  I  know  him  to  be 
•artful,  selfish,  and  malicious  —  in  short,  a  sentimen- 
tal knave^7  while  with  Sir  Peter,  and  indeed  with  all 
his  acquaintance,  he  passes  for  a  youthful  miracle  of 
prudence,  good  sense,  and  benevolence. 
*  '"Snake.  Yes ;  yet  Sir  Peter  vows  he  has  not  his 
equal  in  England  —  and,  above  all,  he  praises  him  as 
a  man  of  sentiment. 

Lady  Sneer.  True  ;  and  with  the  assistance  of  his 
sentiment  and  hypocrisy  he  has  brought  Sir  Peter 
entirely  into  his  interest  with  regard  to  Maria ;  while 
poor  Charles  has  no  friend  in  the  house  —  though,  I 
fear,  he  has  a  powerful  one  in  Maria's  heart,  against 
whom  we  must  direct  our  schemes. 

Enter  SERVANT. 

Serv.    Mr.  Surface. 

Lady  Sneer.  Show  him  up.  \_Exit  SERVANT.]  He 
generally  calls  about  this  time.  I  don't  wonder  at 
people  giving  him  to  me  for  a  lover. 

Enter  JOSEPH  SURFACE. 

Jos.  Surf.  My  dear  Lady  Sneerwell,  how  do  you 
do  to-day  ?  Mr.  Snake,  your  most  obedient. 

Lady  Sneer.  Snake  has  just  been  rallying  me  on 
our  mutual  attachment ;  but  I  have  informed  him  of 
our  real  views.  You  know  how  useful  he  has  been 
to  us ;  and,  believe  me,  the  confidence  is  not  ill 
placed. 

Jos.  Surf.  Madam,  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  sus- 
pect a  man  of  Mr.  Snake's  sensibility  and  discern- 
ment. 

Lady  Sneer.    Well,  well,  no  compliments  now ;  but 


THE   SCHOOL   FOR   SCANDAL.  J45 

tell  me  when  you  saw  your  mistress,  Maria -~or> 
what  is  more  material  to  me,  your  brother. 

Jos.  Surf.  I  have  not  seen  either  since  I  left  you ; 
but  I  can  inform  you  that  they  never  meet.  Some 
of  your  stories  have  taken  a  good  effect  on  Maria. 

Lady  Sneer.  Ah,  my  dear  Snake'!  the  merit  of  this 
belongs  to  you.  But  do  your  brother's  distresses 
increase  ? 

Jos.  Surf.  Every  hour.  I  am  told  he  has  had 
another  execution  in  the  house  yesterday.  In  short, 
his  dissipation  and  extravagance  exceed  anything  I 
have  ever  heard  of. 

Lady  Sneer.    Poor  Charles  ! 

Jos.  Surf.  True,  madam ;  notwithstanding  his 
vices,  one  can't  help  feeling  for  him.  Poor  Charles  ! 
I  'm  sure  I  wish  it  were  in  my  power  to  be  of  any  es- 
sential service  to  him  ;  for  the  man  who  does  not 
share  in  the  distresses  of  a  brother,  even  though 
merited  by  his  own  misconduct,  deserves 

Lady  Sneer.  O  Lud !  you  are  going  to  be  moral, 
and  forget  that  you  are  among  friends. 

Jos.  Surf.  Egad,  that 's  true  !  I  '11  keep  that  senti- 
ment till  I  see  Sir  Peter.  However,  it  is  certainly  a 
charity  to  rescue  Maria  from  such  a  libertine,  who, 
if  he  is  to  be  reclaimed,  can  be  so  only  by  a  person 
of  your  ladyship's  superior  accomplishments  and 
understanding. 

Snake.  I  believe,  Lady  Sneerwell,  here  's  company 
coming ;  I  '11  go  and  copy  the  letter  I  mentioned  to 
you.  Mr.  Surface,  your  most  obedient. 

Jos.  Surf.  Sir,  your  very  devoted.  —  \Exit  SNAKE.] 
Lady  Sneerwell,  I  am  very  sorry  you  have  put  any 
farther  confidence  in  that  fellow. 

Lady  Sneer.    Why  so  ? 

Jos.  Surf.    I  have  lately  detected  him  in  frequent 


146  SHERIDAN'  S   COMEDIES. 


ee  with  old  Rowley,  who  was  formerly  my 
frvner's  steward,  and  has  never,  you  know,  been  a 
friend  of  mine. 

Lady  Sneer.  And  do  you  think  he  would  betray 
us  ? 

Jos.  Surf.  Nothing  more  likely  :  take  my  word 
for  't,  Lady  Sneerwell,  that  fellow  has  n't  virtue 
enough  to  be  faithful  even  to  his  own  villainy.  — 
Ah,  Maria! 

Enter  MARIA. 

Lady  Sneer.  Maria,  my  dear,  how  do  you  do  ?  — 
What  's  the  matter  ? 

Mar.  Oh  !  there  's  that  disagreeable  lover  of  mine, 
Sir  Benjamin  Backbite,  has  just  called  at  my  guar- 
dian's, with  his  odious  uncle,  Crabtree  ;  so  I  slipped 
out,  and  ran  hither  to  avoid  them. 

Lady  S?ieer.    Is  that  all  ? 

Jos.  Surf.  If  my  brother  Charles  had  been  of  the 
party,  madam,  perhaps  you  would  not  have  been  so 
much  alarmed. 

Lady  Sneer.  Nay,  now  you  are  severe  ;  for  I  dare 
swear  the  truth  of  the  matter  is,  Maria  heard  you 
were  here.  But,  my  dear,  what  has  Sir  Benjamin 
done,  that  you  should  avoid  him  so  ? 

Mar.  Oh,  he  has,  done  nothing  —  but  't  is  for 
what  he  has  said  :  jjhis  conyersation  is  a  perpetual 
libel  on  all  his  acquaintance]. 

Jos.  Surf.  Ay,  and  the  worst  of  it  is,  there  is  no 
advantage  in  not  knowing  him  ;  for  he  '11  abuse  a 
stranger  just  as  soon  as  his  best  friend  :  and  his 
uncle  's  as  bad. 

Lady  Sneer.  Nay,  but  we  >i  orH  make  allowance  ; 
Sir  Benjamin  is  a  wit  and  a  poet. 

Mar.   For  my  part,  I  own,  rnadam,  wu  *,  ses  its 


THE   SCHOOL  FOR   SCANDAL.  147 

respect  with  me,  when  I  see  it  in  company  with  malice. 
What  do  you  think,  Mr.  Surface  ? 

Jos.  Surf.  Certainly,  madam  ;  to  smile  at  the  jest 
which  plants  a  thorn  in  another's  breast  is  to  become 
a  principal  in  the  mischief. 

Lady  Sneer.  Psha  V  there  's  no  possibility  of  being 
witty  without  a  little  ill  nature :  the  malice  of  a  good 
thing  is  the  barb  that  makes  if  stick.  What 's  your 
opinion,  Mr.  Surface  ? 

Jos.  Surf.  To  be  sure,  madam  :  that  conversation, 
where  the  spirit  of  raillery  is  suppressed,  will  ever 
appear  tedious  and  insipid. 

Mar.  Well,  I  '11  not  debate  how  far  scandal  may 
be  allowable;  but  in  a  man,  I  am  sure,  it  is  always 
contemptible.  We  have  pride,  envy,  rivalship,  and  a 
thousand  motives  to  depreciate  each  other :  but  the 
male  slanderer  must  have  the  cowardice  of  a  woman 
before  he  can  traduce  one. 

Reenter  SERVANT. 

Seru.  Madam,  Mrs.  Candour  is  below,  and,  if  your 
ladyship  's  at  leisure,  will  leave  her  carriage. 

Lady  Sneer.  Beg  her  to  walk  in .  —  \Exit  SERVANT.] 
Now,  Maria,  here  is  a  character  to  your  taste ;  for, 
though  Mrs.  Candour  is  a  little  talkative,  everybody 
allows  her  to  be  the  best-natured  and  best  sort  of 
woman. 

Mar.  Yes,  — [with  a  very  gross  affectation  of  good- 
nature and  benevolence,  she  does  more  mischief  than 
the  direct  malice  of  old  Crabtreej 

Jos.  Surf.  I'  faith  that 's  true,  Lady  Sneerwell : 
whenever  I  hear  the  curxent  running  against  the 
characters  of  my  friends^I-jiever  think  them  in  such 
danger  as  when  Candour  undertakes  their  defence. 

Lady  Sneer.   Hush  1  —  here  she  is  1  — 


148  SHERIDAN^  S   COMEDIES. 

Enter  MRS.  CANDOUR. 

Mrs.  Can.  My  dear  Lady  Sneerwell,  how  have  you 
been  this  century  ?  —  Mr.  Surface,  what  news  do  you 
hear  ?  —  though  indeed  it  is  no  matter,  for  I  think  one 
hears  nothing  else  but  scandal. 

Jos.  Surf.   Just  so,  indeed,  ma'am. 

Mrs.  Can.  Oh,  Maria  !  child,  —  what,  is  the  whole 
affair  off  between  you  and  Charles  ?  —  His  extrava- 
gance, I  presume  —  the  town  talks  of  nothing  else. 

Mar.  I  am  very  sorry,  ma'am,  the  town  has  so 
little  to  do. 

Mrs.  Can.  True,  true,  child  :  but  there  's  no  stop- 
ping people's  tongues.  I  own  I  was  hurt  to  hear  it, 
as  I  indeed  was  to  learn,  from  the  same  quarter,  that 
your  guardian,  Sir  Peter,  and  Lady  Teazle  have  not 
agreed  lately  as  well  as  could  be  wished. 

Mar.  'T  is  strangely  impertinent  for  people  to  busy 
themselves  so. 

Mrs.  Can.  Very  true,  child :  but  what 's  to  be 
done  ?  People  will  talk  —  there  's  no  preventing  it. 
Why,  it  was  but  yesterday  I  was  told  that  Miss 
Gadabout  had  eloped  with  Sir  Filigree  Flirt.  But, 
Lord  !  there  's  no  minding  what  one  hears  ;  though, 
to  be  sure,  I  had  this  from  very  good  authority. 

Mar.    Such  reports  are  highly  scandalous. 

Mrs.  Can.  So  they  are,  child  —  shameful,  shame- 
ful !  But  the  world  is  so  censorious,  no  character 
escapes. — Lord,  now  who  would  have  suspected 
your  friend,  Miss  Prim,  of  an  indiscretion  ?  Yet 
such  is  the  ill  nature  of  people,  that  they  say  her 
uncle  stopped  her  last  week,  just  as  she  was  stepping 
into  the  York  diligence  with  her  dancing-master. 

Mar.  I  '11  answer  for  't  there  are  no  grounds  for 
that  report. 


THE   SCHOOL   FOR   SCANDAL.  149 

Mrs.  Can.  Ah,  no  foundation  in  the  world,  I  dare 
swear :  no  more,  probably,  than  for  the  story  circu- 
lated last  month,  of  Mrs.  Festino's  affair  with  Colonel 
Cassino  —  though,  to  be  sure,  that  matter  was  never 
rightly  cleared  up. 

Jos.  Surf.  The  license  of  invention  some  people 
take  is  monstrous  indeed. 

Mar.  'T  is  so ;  but,  in  my  opinion,  those  who  re- 
port such  things  are  equally  culpable. 

Mrs.  Can.  To  be  sure  they  are ;  tale-bearers  are 
as  bad  as  the  tale-makers — 't  is  an  old  observation, 
and  a  very  true  one  :  but  what 's  to  be  done,  as  I  said 
before  ?  how  will  you  prevent  people  from  talking  ? 
To-day,  Mrs.  Clackitt  assured  me,  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Honeymoon  were  at  last  become  mere  man  and  wife, 
like  the  rest  of  their  acquaintance.  She  likewise 
hinted  that  a  certain  widow,  in  the  next  street,  had 
got  rid  of  her  dropsy  and  recovered  her  shape  in  a 
most  surprising  manner.  And  at  the  same  time  Miss 
Tattle,  who  was  by,  affirmed  that  Lord  Buffalo  had 
discovered  his  lady  at  a  house  of  no  extraordinary 
fame  ;  and  that  Sir  Harjy  Bouquet  and  Tom  Saunter 
were  to  measure  swords  on  a  similar  provocation.  — 
But,  Lord,  do  you  think  I  would  report  these  things  ? 
—  No,  no !  tale-bearers,  as  I  said  before,  are  just  as 
bad  as  the  tale-makers. 

Jos.  Surf.  Ah !  Mrs.  Candour,  if  everybody  had 
your  forbearance  and  good  nature  !  . 

Mrs.  Can.  I  confess,1  Mr.  Surface)  I  cannot  bear 
to  hear  people  attacked  <  behind  their  backs  ;  and 
when  ugly  circumstances  icome  out  against  our  ac- 
quaintance ,1  own  I  always  Jove  to  think  the  best;  — 
By  the  by,  I  hope  't  is  not  true  ^that  your  brother  is 
absolutely  ruined  ? 

Jos.  Surf.  I  am  afraid  his  circumstances  are  very 
bad  indeed,  ma'am. 


150  SHERIDAN'S   COMEDIES. 

Mrs.  Can.  Ah !  I  heard  so  —  but  you  must  tell 
him ^ to  keep  up  his  spirits;  everybody . almost  is  in 
the  same  way :  Lord  Spindle,  Sir  Thomas  Splint, 
Captain  Quinze,  and  Mr.  Nickit  —  s!Lup>'  I  hear,-* 
within  this  week  ;  so,  if  Charles  is  undone,- he  '11  find 
half  his  acquaintance  ruined  too,i.and  that,  you  know, 
is  a  consolation. 

Jos.  Surf.   Doubtless,  ma'am  —  a  very  great  one. 

Reenter   SERVANT. 

Serv.   Mr.  Crabtree  and  Sir  Benjamin  Backbite. 

\Exit  SERVANT. 

Lady  Sneer.  So,  Maria,  you  see  your  lover  pursues 
you  :  positively  you  sha'n't  escape. 

Enter  CRABTREE  and  SIR  BENJAMIN  BACKBITE. 

Crab.  Lady  Sneerwell,  I  kiss  your  hand.  Mrs. 
Candour,  I  don't  believe  you  are  acquainted  with  my 
nephew,  Sir  Benjamin  Backbite  ?  Egad,  ma'am,  he 
has  a  pretty  wit,  and  is  a  pretty  poet,  too.  Is  n't  he, 
Lady  Sneerwell? 

Sir.  Benj.    Oh,  fie,  uncle  ! 

Crab.  Nay,  egad  it 's  true  ;  I  back  him  at  a  rebus 
or  a  charade  against  the  best  rhymer  in  the  king- 
dom. —  Has  your  ladyship  heard  the  epigram  he 
wrote  last  week  on  Lady  Frizzle's  feather  catching 
fire  ?  —  Do,  Benjamin,  repeat  it,  or  the  charade  you 
made  last  night  extempore  at  Mrs.  Drowzje^s  con- 
versazione. Come,  now ;  your  first  is  the  name  of  a 
fish,  your  second  a  great  naval  commander,  and  — 

Sir  Benj.    Uncle,  now  —  pr'ythee  — 

Crab.  I'  faith,  ma'am,  't  would  surprise  you  to  hear 
how  ready  he  is  at  all  these  fine  sort  of  things. 

Lady  Sneer.  I  wonder,  Sir  Benjamin,  you  never 
publish  anything. 


THE   SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL.  151 

Sir  Benj.  To  say  truth,  ma'am,  't  is  very  vulgar  to 
print :  and  as  my  little  productions  are  mostly  satires 
and  lampoons  on  particular  people,  I  find  they  cir- 
culate more  by  giving  copies  in  confidence  to  the 
friends  of  the  parties.  —  However,  I  have  some  love 
elegies,  which,  when  favoured  with  this  lady's  smiles, 
I  mean  to  give  the  public.  [Pointing  to  MARIA. 

Crab.  [To  MARIA.]  'Fore  heaven,  ma'am,  they  '11 
immortalize  you !  —  you  will  be  handed  down  to 
posterity,  like  Petrarch's  Laura,  or  Waller's  Sacha- 
rissa. 

Sir  Benj.  \_To  MARIA.]  Yes,  madam,  I  think  you 
will  like  them,  when  you  shall  see  them  on  a  beauti- 
ful quarto  page,  where  a  neat  rivulet  of  text  shall 
meander  through  a  meadow  of  margin.  —  'Fore  Gad 
they  will  be  the  most  elegant  things  of  their  kind  ! 

Crab.  But,  ladies,  that  's  true  —  have  you  heard 
the  news  ? 

Mrs.  Can.    What,  sir,  do  you  mean  the  report  of 

Crab.  No,  ma'am,  that 's  not  it.  —  Miss  Nicely  is 
going  to  be  married  to  her  own  footman. 

Mrs.  Can.    Impossible. 

Crab.    Ask  Sir  Benjamin. 

Sir  Benj.  'T  is  very  true,  ma'am  :  everything  is 
fixed,  and  the  wedding  liveries  bespoke. 

Crab.  Yes  —  and  they  do  say  there  were  pressing 
reasons  for  it. 

Lady  Sneer.  Why,  I  have  heard  something  of  this 
before. 

Mrs.  Can.  It  can't  be  —  and  I  wonder  anyone 
should  believe  such  a  story  of  so  prudent  a  lady  as 
Miss  Nicely. 

Sir  Benj.  O  Lud  !  ma'am,  that 's  the  very  reason 
'twas  believed  at  once.  She  has  always  been  so 


I  $2  SHERIDAN* S   COMEDIES. 

cautious  and  so  reserved,  that  everybody  was  sure 
there  was  some  reason  for  it  at  bottom. 

Mrs.  Can.  Why,  to  be  sure,  a  tale  of  scandal  is  as 
fatal  to  the  credit  of  a  prudent  lady  of  her  stamp  as 
a  fever  is  generally  to  those  of  the  strongest  consti- 
tutions. But  there  is  a  sort  of  puny,  sickly  reputation, 
that  is  always  ailing,  yet  will  outlive  the  robuster 
characters  of  a  hundred  prudes. 

Sir  Benj.  True,  madam,  there  are  valetudinarians 
in  reputation  as  well  as  constitution,  who,  being  con- 
scious of  their  weak  part,  avoid  the  least  breath  of 
air,  and  supply  their  want  of  stamina  by  care  and 
circumspection. 

Mrs.  Can.  Well,  but  this  may  be  all  a  mistake. 
You  know,  Sir  Benjamin,  very  trifling  circumstances 
often  give  rise  to  the  most  injurious  tales. 

Crab.  That  they  do,  I  '11  be  sworn, -ma'am.  Did 
you  ever  hear  how  Miss  Piper  came  to  lose  her 
lover  and  her  character  last  summer  at  Tunbridge  ? 
—  Sir  Benjamin,  you  remember  it  ? 

Sir.  Benj.  Oh,  to  be  sure!  —  the  most  whimsical 
circumstance. 

Lady  Sneer.    How  was  it,  pray  ? 

Crab.  Why,  one  evening,  at  Mrs.  Ponto's  assem- 
bly, the  conversation  happened  to  turn  on  the  breed- 
ing Nova  Scotia  sheep  in  this  country.  Says  a 
young  lady  in  company,  I  have  known  instances  of 
it ;  for  Miss  Letitia  Piper,  a  first  cousin  of  mine,  had 
a  Nova  Scotia  sheep  that  produced  her  twins.  — 
"  What !  "  cries  the  Lady  Dowager  Dundizzy  (who 
you  know  is  as  deaf  as  a  post),  "  has  Miss  Piper  had 
twins  ?  "  —  This  mistake,  as  you  may  imagine,  threw 
the  whole  company  into  a  fit  of  laughter.  However, 
't  was  the  next  morning  everywhere  reported,  and  in 
a  few  days  believed  by  the  whole  town,  that  Miss 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL.  153 

Letitia  Piper  had  actually  been  brought  to  bed  of  a 
fine  boy  and  a  girl :  and  in  less  than  a  week  there 
were  some  people  who  could  name  the  father,  and 
the  farmhouse  where  the  babies  were  put  to  nurse. 

Lady  Sneer.    Strange,  indeed  ! 

Crab.  Matter  of  fact,  I  assure  you.  O  Lud  !  Mr. 
Surface,  pray  is  it  true  that  your  uncle,  Sir  Oliver,  is 
coming  home? 

Jos.  Surf.    Not  that  I  know  of,  indeed,  sir. 

Crab.  He  has  been  in  the  East  Indies  a  long 
time.  You  can  scarcely  remember  him,  I  believe  ? 
—  Sad  comfort,  whenever  he  returns,  to  hear  how 
your  brother  has  gone  on  ! 

Jos.  Surf.  Charles  has  been  imprudent,  sir,  to  be 
sure ;  but  I  hope  no  busy  people  have  already  preju- 
diced Sir  Oliver  against  him.  He  may  reform. 

Sir  Benj.  To  be  sure  he  may :  for  my  part,  I 
never  believed  him  to  be  so  utterly  void  of  principle 
as  people  say  ;  and,  though  he  has  lost  all  his  friends, 
I  am  told  nobody  is  better  spoken  of  by  the  Jews. 

Crab.  That's  true,  egad,  nephew.  If  the  Old 
Jewry  was  a  ward,  I  believe  Charles  would  be  an 
alderman  :  no  man  more  popular  there,  'fore  Gad  !  I 
hear  he  pays  as  many  annuities  as  the  Irish  tontine  ; 
and  that,  whenever  he  is  sick,  they  have  prayers  for 
the  recovery  of  his  health  in  all  the  synagogues. 

Sir  Benj.  Yet  no  man  lives  in  greater  splendour. 
They  tell  me,  when  he  entertains  his  friends  he  will 
sit  down  to  dinner  with  a  dozen  of  his  own  securi- 
ties ;  have  a  score  of  tradesmen  waiting  in  the  ante- 
chamber, and  an  officer  behind  every  guest's  chair. 

Jos.  Surf.  This  maybe  entertainment  to  you,  gen- 
tlemen, but  you  pay  very  little  regard  to  the  feelings 
of  a  brother. 

Mar.    \AsideI\    Their   malice     is     intolerable !  — 


154  SHERIDAN'S   COMEDIES. 

[Aloud.']  Lady  Sneerwell,  I  must  wish   you  a  good 
morning:  I 'm  not  very  well.  [Exit  MARIA. 

Mrs.  Can.    O  dear !  she  changes  colour  very  much. 

Lady  Sneer.  Do,  Mrs.  Candour,  follow  her  :  she 
may  want  your  assistance. 

|  Mrs.  Can.  That  I  will,  with  all  my  soul,  ma'am. — 
j  Poor  dear  girl,  who  knows  what  her  situation  may 
/J3£J  [Exit  MRS.  CANDOUR. 

Lady  Sneer.  'T  was  nothing  but  that  she  could  not 
bear  to  hear  Charles  reflected  on,  notwithstanding 
their  difference. 

Sir  Benj.    The  young  \&&y's  penchant  is  obvious. 

Crab.  But  Benjamin,  you  must  not  give  up  the 
pursuit  for  that :  follow  her,  and  put  her  into  good 
humour.  Repeat  her  some  of  your  own  verses. 
Come,  I  !11  assist  you. 

Sir  Benj.  Mr.  Surface,  I  did  not  mean  to  hurt 
you ;  but  depend  on  't  your  brother  is  utterly  un- 
done. 

Crab.  O  Lud,  ay  !  undone  as  ever  man  was  — 
can't  raise  a  guinea  !  — 

Sir  Benj.  And  everything  sold,  I  'm  told,  that  was 
movable.  — 

Crab.  I  have  seen  one  that  was  at  his  house.  — 
Not  a  thing  left  but  some  empty  bottles  that  were 
overlooked,  and  the  family  pictures,  which  I  believe 
are  framed  in  the  wainscots  — 

Sir  Benj.  And  I  'm  very  sorry  also  to  hear  some 
bad  stories  against  him.  [Going. 

Crab.  Oh,  he  has  done  many  mean  things,  that 's 
certain. 

Sir  Benj.    But,  however,  as  he  's  your  brother  — 

[  Going. 

Crab.    We  '11  tell  you  all  another  opportunity. 

[Exeunt  CRABTREE  and  SIR  BENJAMIN. 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL.      155 

Lady  Sneer.  Ha !  ha !  'tis  very  hard  for  them  to 
leave  a  subject  they  have  not  quite  run  down. 

Jos.  Surf.  And  I  believe  the  abuse  was  no  more 
acceptable  to  your  ladyship  than  Maria. 

Lady  Sneer.  I  doubt  her  affections  are  farther 
engaged  than  we  imagine.  But  the  family  are  to  be 
here  this  evening,  so  you  may  as  well  dine  where 
you  are,  and  we  shall  have  an  opportunity  of  observ- 
ing farther ;  in  the  meantime  I  '11  go  and  plot  mis- 
chief, and  you  shall  study  sentiment.  \_Exeunt.\ 


SCENE  II.  —  A  Room  in  SIR  PETER  TEAZLE'S  House. 
Enter  SIR  PETER  TEAZLE. 

Sir  Peter.  When  an  old  bachelor  marries  a  young 
wife,  what  is  he  to  expect  ?  'T  is  now  six  months 
since  Lady  Teazle  made  me  the  happiest  of  men  — 
tand  I  have  been  the  most  miserable  dog  ever  since ! 
We  tifted  a  little  going  to  church,  and  fairly  quar- 
relled before  the  bells  had  done  ringing.  I  was 
more  than  once  nearly  choked  with  gall  during  the 
honeymoon,  and  had  lost  all  comfort  in  life  before 
my  friends  had  done  wishing  me  joy.  Yet  I  chose 
with  caution— r  a  girl  bred  wholly  in  the  country,  who 
never  knew  luxury  beyond  one  silk  gown,  nor.  dissi- 
pation above  the  annual  gala  of  a  race  ball/  Yet 
she  now  plays  her  part  in  all  ( the  extravagant  fopper- 
ies of  fashion  and  the  town^Jvith  as  ready  a  grace  as 
if  she  never  had  seen  a  bush  or  a  grass-plot  out 
of  Grosvenor  Square!  J  am  sneered  at  by  all  my 
acquaintance,  and  paragraphed  in  the  newspapers* 
She  dissipates  my  fortune,  and  contradicts  all  my 
humours  ;  yet  the  worst  of  it  is,  I  dojubtJL  love  her,  or 


156  SHERIDAN' 'S    COMEDIES. 

I  should  never  bear  all  this.     However,  I  '11  never 
be  weak  enough  to  own  it. 

Enter  ROWLEY. 

Row.  Oh  !  Sir  Peter,  your  servant :  how  is  it  with 
you,  sir? 

Sir  Peter.  Very  bad,  Master  Rowley,  very  bad.  I 
meet  with  nothing  but  crosses  and  vexations. 

Row.  What  can  have  happened  to  trouble  you 
since  yesterday  ? 

Sir  Peter.    A  good  question  to  a  married  man  ! 

Row.  Nay,  I  'm  sure,  Sir  Peter,  your  lady  can't  be 
the  cause  of  your  uneasiness. 

Sir  Peter.  Why,  has  anybody  told  you  she  was 
dead? 

I' Row.    Come,  come,  Sir  Peter,  you  love  her,  not- 
Ajdthstanding  your  tempers  don't  exactly  agree. 

Sir  Peter.    But  the  fault  is  entirely  hers,  Master 
Rowley.     I  am,  myself,  the  sweetest-tempered  man 
alive,  and  hate  a  teasing  temper ;  and  so  I  tell  her  a 
j|  hundred  times  a  day. 

Row.    Indeed  ! 

Sir  Peter.  Ay  ;  and  what  is  very  extraordinary,  in 
all  our  disputes  she  is  always  in  the  wrong !  But 
Lady  Sneerwell,  and  the  set  she  meets  at  her  house, 
encourage  the  perverseness  of  her  disposition.  — 
Then,  to  complete  my  vexation,  Maria,  my  ward, 
whom  I  ought  to  have  the  power  of  a  father  over, 
is  determined  to  turn  rebel  too,  and  absolutely  refuses 
the  man  whom  I  have  long  resolved  on  for  her  hus- 
band ;  meaning,  I  suppose,  to  bestow  herself  on  his 
profligate  brother. 

Row.  You  know,  Sir  Peter,  I  have  always  taken 
the  liberty  to  differ  with  you  on  the  subject  of  these 
two  young  gentlemen.  I  only  wish  you  may  not  be 


THE   SCHOOL  FOR   SCANDAL.  157 

deceived  in  your  opinion  of  the  elder.  For  Charles, 
my  life  on  't !  he  will  retrieve  his  errors  yet.  Their 
worthy  father,  once  my  honoured  master,  was,  at  his 
years,  nearly  as  wild  a  spark ;  yet,  when  he  died,  he 
did  not  leave  a  more  benevolent  heart  to  lament  his 
loss. 

Sir  Peter.  You  are  wrong,  Master  Rowley.  On 
their  father's  death,  you  know,  I  acted  as  a  kind  of 
guardian  to  them  both,  till  their  uncle  Sir  Oliver's 
liberality  gave  them  an  early  independence :  of 
course,  no  person  could  have  more  opportunities  of 
judging  of  tjieir  hearts,  and  I  was  never  mistaken 
in  my  life,  f  Joseph  is  indeed  a  model  of  the  young 
men  of  the  ctg'eT  He  is  a  man  of  sentiment,  and  acts 
up  to  the  sentiments  he  professes  \  but,  for  the  other, 
take  my  word  for  't,  if  he  had  any  grain  of  virtue  by 
descent,  he  has  dissipated  it  with  the  rest  of  his 
inheritance.  Ah !  my  old  friend,  Sir  Oliver,  will  be 
deeply  mortified  when  he  finds  how  part  of  his  bounty 
has  been  misapplied. 

Row.  I  am  sorry  to  find  you  so  violent  against 
the  young  man,  because  this  may  be  the  most  critical 
period  of  his  fortune.  I  came  hither  with  news  that 
will  surprise  you. 

Sir  Peter.    What !  let  me  hear. 

Row.  Sir  Oliver  is  arrived,  and  at  this  moment  in 
town. 

Sir  Peter.  How  !  you  astonish  me  !  I  thought  you 
did  not  expect  him  this  month. 

Row.  I  did  not ;  but  his  passage  has  been  remark- 
ably quick. 

Sir  Peter.  Egad,  I  shall  rejoice  to  see  my  old 
friend.  'T  is  fifteen  years  since  we  met.  —  We 
have  had  many  a  day  together  :  —  but  does  he  still 
enjoin  us  not  to  inform  his  nephews  of  his  arrival  ? 


158  SHERIDAN'S   COMEDIES. 

Row.  Most  strictly.  He  means,  before  it  is 
known,  to  make  some  trial  of  their  dispositions. 

Sir  Peter.  Ah !  there  needs  no  art  to  discover 
their  merits  —  however  he  shall  have  his  way ;  but, 
pray,  does  he  know  I  am  married  ? 

Row.    Yes,  and  will  soon  wish  you  joy. 

Sir  Peter.  What,  as  we  drink  health  to  a  friend  in 
a  consumption  !  Ah  !  Oliver  will  laugh  at  me.  We 
used  to  rail  at  matrimony  together,  but  he  has  been 
steady  to  his  text.  —  Well,  he  must  be  soon  at  my 
house,  though  —  I  '11  instantly  give  orders  for  his 
reception. — But,  Master  Rowley,  don't  drop  a  word 
that  Lady  Teazle  and  I  ever  disagree. 

Row.    By  no  means. 

Sir  Peter.  For  I  should  never  be  able  to  stand  Noll's 
jokes  ;  so  I  '11  have  him  think,  Lord  forgive  me !  that 
we  are  a  very  happy  couple. 

Row.  I  understand  you  :  —  but  then  you  must  be 
very  careful  not  to  differ  while  he  is  in  the  house 
with  you. 

Sir  Peter.  Egad,  and  so  we  must  —  and  that 's 
impossible.  Ah !  Master  Rowley,  when  an  old 
bachelor  marries  a  young  wife,  he  deserves  —  no  — 
the  crime  carries  its  punishment  along  with  it. 

\Exeunt, 


THE   SCHOOL  FOR   SCANDAL,  159 


ACT  II. 

SCENE  I.  —  A  Room  in  SIR  PETER  TEAZLE'S  House. 
Enter  SIR  PETER  and  LADY  TEAZLE. 

Sir  Peter.  Lady  Teazle,  Lady  Teazle,  I  '11  not 
bear  it! 

Lady  Teaz.  Sir  Peter,  Sir  Peter,  you  may  bear  it 
or  not,  as  you  please  ;  but  I  ought  to  have  my  own 
way  in  everything,  and  what 's  more,  I  will  too. 
What!  though  I  was  educated  in  the  country,  I 
know  very  well  that  women  of  fashion  in  London 
are  accountable  to  nobody  after  they  are  married. 

Sir  Peter.  Very  well,  ma'am,  very  well ; — so  a 
husband  is  to  have  no  influence,  no  authority  ? 

Lady  Teaz.  Authority  !  No,  to  be  sure  :  —  if  you 
want  authority  over  me,  you  should  have  adopted 
me,  and  not  married  me  :  I  am  sure  you  were  old 
enough. 

Sir  Peter.  Old  enough  !  —  ay,  there  it  is.  Well, 
well,  Lady  Teazle,  though  my  life  may  be  made  un- 
happy by  your  temper,  I  '11  not  be  ruined  by  your 
extravagance ! 

Lady  Teaz.  My  extravagance  !  I  'm  sure  I  'm  not 
more  extravagant  than  a  woman  of  fashion  ought 
to  be. 

Sir  Peter.  No,  no,  madam,  you  shall  throw  away 
no  more  sums  on  such  unmeaning  luxury.  'Slife  ! 
to  spend  as  much  to  furnish  your  dressing-room  with 


160  SHERIDAN'S   COMEDIES. 

flowers  in  winter  as  would  suffice  to  turn  the  Pan- 
theon into  a  greenhouse,  and  give  a  fete  champetre  at 
Christmas. 

Lady  Teaz.  And  am  I  to  blame,  Sir  Peter,  because 
flowers  are  dear  in  cold  weather?  You  should  find 
fault  with  the  climate,  and  not  with  me.  For  my 
part,  I  'm  sure  I  wish  it  was  spring  all  the  year 
round,  and  that  roses  grew  under  our  feet ! 

Sir  Peter.  Oons  !  madam  —  if  you  had  been  born 
to  this,  I  should  n't  wonder  at  your  talking  thus ; 
but  you  forget  what  your  situation  was  when  I 
married  you. 

Lady  Teaz.  No,  no,  I  don't ;  't  was  a  very  dis- 
agreeable one,  or  I  should  never  have  married  you. 

Sir  Peter.  Yes,  yes,  madam,  you  were  then  in 
somewhat  a  humbler  style  —  the  daughter  of  a  plain 
country  squire.  Recollect,  Lady  Teazle,  when  I  saw 
you  first  sitting  at  your  tambour,  in  a  pretty  figured 
linen  gown,  with  a  bunch  of  keys  at  your  side,  your 
hair  combed  smooth  over  a  roll,  and  your  apartment 
hung  round  with  fruits  in  worsted,  of  your  own 
working. 

Lady  Teaz.  Oh,  yes  !  I  remember  it  very  well, 
and  a  curious  life  I  led.  —  My  daily  occupation  to 
inspect  the  dairy,  superintend  the  poultry,  make 
extracts  from  the  family  receipt  book,  and  comb  my 
aunt  Deborah's  lapdog. 

Sir  Peter.    Yes,  yes,  ma'am,  'twas  so  indeed. 

Lady  Teaz.  And  then  you  know,  my  evening 
amusements  !  To  draw  patterns  for  ruffles,  which  I 
had  not  materials  to  make  up ;  to  play  Pope  Joan 
with  the  curate ;  to  read  a  sermon  to  my  aunt ;  or  to 
be  stuck  down  to  an  old  spinet  to  strum  my  father  to 
sleep  after  a  fox-chase. 

Sir  Peter.    I  am  glad  you  have  so  good  a  memory. 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL.      l6l 

Yes,  madam,  these  were  the  recreations  I  took  you 
from  ;  but  now  you  must  have  your  coach  —  vis-a-vis 
—  and  three  powdered  footmen  before  your  chair ; 
and,  in  the  summer,  a  pair  of  white  cats  to  draw  you 
to  Kensington  Gardens.  No  recollection,  I  suppose, 
when  you  were  content  to  ride  double,  behind  the 
butler,  on  a  docked  coach-horse. 

Lady  Teaz.  No  —  I  swear  I  never  did  that:  I  deny 
the  butler  and  the  coach-horse. 

Sir  Peter.  This,  madam,  was  your  situation ;  and 
what  have  I  done  for  you  ?  I  have  made  you  a 
woman  of  fashion,  of  fortune,  of  rank  —  in  short,  I 
have  made  you  my  wife. 

Lady  Teaz.  Well,  then,  and  there  is  but  one  thing 
more  you  can  make  me  to  add  to  the  obligation,  that 
is 

Sir  Peter.    My  widow,  I  suppose  ? 

Lady  Teaz.    Hem  !  hem  ! 

Sir  Peter.  I  thank  you,  madam  —  but  don't  flatter 
yourself ;  for,  though  your  ill  conduct  may  disturb 
my  peace  of  mind,  it  shall  never  break  my  heart,  I 
promise  you :  however,  I  am  equally  obliged  to  you 
for  the  hint. 

Lady  Teaz.  Then  why  will  you  endeavour  to  make 
yourself  so  disagreeable  to  me,  and  thwart  me  in 
every  little  elegant  expense  ? 

Sir  Peter.  'Slife,  madam,  I  say,  had  you  any  of 
these  little  elegant  expenses  when  you  married 
me  ? 

Lady  Teaz.  Lud,  Sir  Peter!  would  you  have  me 
be  out  of  the  fashion  ? 

Sir  Peter.  The  fashion,  indeed  !  what  had  you  to 
do  with  the  fashion  before  you  married  me  ? 

Lady  Teaz.  For  my  part,  I  should  think  you  would 
like  to  have  your  wife  thought  a  woman  of  taste. 


1 62  SHERIDAN'S  COMEDIES. 

Sir  Peter.  Ay  —  there  again  —  taste  !  Zounds  1 
madam,  you  had  no  taste  when  you  married  me  ! 

Lady  Teaz.  That  's  very  true,  indeed,  Sir  Peter  1 
and  after  having  married  you,  I  should  never  pretend 
to  taste  again,  I  allow.  But  now,  Sir  Peter,  since 
we  have  finished  our  daily  jangle,  I  presume  I  may 
go  to  my  engagement  at  Lady  Sneerwell's. 

Sir  Peter,  Ay,  there  's  another  precious  circum- 
stance —  a  charming  set  of  acquaintance  you  have 
made  there ! 

Lady  Teaz.  Nay,  Sir  Peter,  they  are  all  people  of 
rank  and  fortune,  and  remarkable  tenacious  of  repu- 
tation. 

Sir  Peter.  Yes,  egad,  they  are  tenacious  of  repu- 
tation with  a  vengeance  ;  for  they  don't  choose  any- 
body should  have  a  character  but  themselves  !  Such 
a  crew !  Ah !  many  a  wretch  has  rid  on  a  hurdle 
who  has  done  less  mischief  than  these  utterers  of 
forged  tales,  coiners  of  scandal,  .and  clippers  of 
reputation. 

Lady  Teaz.  What,  would  you  restrain  the  freedom 
of  speech  ? 

Sir  Peter.  Ah  !  they  have  made  you  just  as  bad  as 
any  one  of  the  society. 

Lady  Teaz.  Why,  I  believe  I  do  bear  a  part  with 
a  tolerable  grace. 

Sir  Peter.   Grace  indeed  ! 

Lady  Teaz.  jJBut  I  vvow  I  bear  no  malice  against 
the  people  I  abuse^-  When  I  say  an  ill-natured 
thing,  't  is  out  of  pure  good  humour  ;  and  I  take  it  for 
granted  they  deal  exactly  in  the  same  manner  with 
me.  But,  Sir  Peter,  you  know  you  promised  to  come 
to  Lady  Sneerwell's  too. 

Sir  Peter.  Well,  well,  I  '11  call  in,  just  to  look 
after  my  own  character. 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL.      163 

Lady  Teaz.  Then,  indeed,  you  must  make  haste 
after  me,  or  you  '11  be  too  late.  So  good-by  to  ye. 

[Exit  LADY  TEAZLE. 

Sir  Peter.  So  —  I  have  gained  much  by  my  in- 
tended expostulation  !  Yet  with  what  a  charming  air 
she  contradicts  everything  I  say,  and  how  pleasingly 
she  shows  her  contempt  for  my  authority !  Well, 
though  I  can't  make  her  love  me,  there  is  great  sat- 
isfaction in  quarrelling  with  her ;  [and  I  think  she 
never  appears  to  such  advantage"~as  when  she  is 
doing  everything  in  her  power  to  plague  me.  \Exit. 


SCENE  II.  —  A  Room  in  LADY  SNEERWELL'S  House. 

LADY  SNEERWELL,  MRS.  CANDOUR,  CRABTREE,  SIR 
BENJAMIN  BACKBITE,  and  JOSEPH  SURFACE,  dis- 
covered. 

Lady  Sneer.    Nay,  positively,  we  will  hear  it. 

Jos.  Surf.    Yes,  yes,  the  epigram,  by  all  means. 

Sir  Benj.  O  plague  on  't,  uncle !  't  is  mere  non- 
sense. 

Crab.  No,  no  ;  'fore  Gad,  very  clever  for  an  ex- 
tempore ! 

Sir  Benj.  But,  ladies,  you  should  be  acquainted 
with  the  circumstance.  You  must  know  that  one  day 
last  week,  as  Lady  Betty  Curricle  was  taking  the  dust 
in  Hyde  Park,  in  a  sort  of  duodecimo  phaeton,  she 
desired  me  to  write  some  verses  on  her  ponies  ;  upon 
which,  I  took  out  my  pocket-book,  and  in  one  mo- 
ment produced  the  following  :  — 

Sure  never  was  seen  two  such  beautiful  ponies  ; 
Other  horses  are  clowns,  but  these  macaronies  : 
To  give  them  this  title  I  'm  sure  can't  be  wrong, 
Their  legs  are  so  slim  and  their  tails  are  so  long. 


164  SHERIDAN'S    COMEDIES. 

Crab.  There,  ladies,  done  in  the  smack  of  a  whip, 
and  on  horseback  too. 

Jos.  Surf.  [  A  very  Phoebus,  mounted! — indeed,  Sir 
Benjamin !  i- — 

Sir  Benj.    Oh  dear,  sir  !  trifles  —  trifles. 

Enter  LADY  TEAZLE  and  MARIA. 

Mrs.  Can.    I  must  have  a  copy. 

Lady  Sneer.  Lady  Teazle,  I  hope  we  shall  see  Sir 
Peter  ? 

Lady  Teaz.  I  believe  he  '11  wait  on  your  ladyship 
presently. 

Lady  Sneer.  Maria,  my.  love,  you  look  grave. 
Come,  you  shall  sit  down  to  piquet  with  Mr. 
Surface. 

Mar.  I  take  very  little  pleasure  in  cards  —  how- 
ever, I  '11  do  as  your  ladyship  pleases. 

Lady  Teaz.  I  am  surprised  Mr.  Surface  should  sit 
down  with  her ;  I  thought  he  would  have  embraced 
this  opportunity  of  speaking  to  me  before  Sir  Peter 
came.  [Aside. 

Mrs.  Can.  Now,  I  '11  die  ;  but  you  are  so  scan- 
dalous, I  '11  forswear  your  society. 

Lady  Teaz.    What 's  the  matter,  Mrs.  Candour  ? 

Mrs.  Can.  They  '11  not  allow  our  friend  Miss  Ver- 
million  to  be  handsome. 

Lady  Sneer.    Oh,  surely  she  is  a  pretty  woman. 

Crab.    I  am  very  glad  you  think  so,  ma'am. 

Mrs.  Can.    She  has  a  charming  fresh  colour. 

Lady  Teaz.    Yes,  when  it  is  fresh  put  on. 

Mrs.  Can.  O,  fie  !  I  '11  swear  her  colour  is  natural : 
I  have  seen  it  come  and  go  ! 

Lady  Teaz.  I  dare  swear  you  have,  ma'am :  it 
goes  off  at  night,  and  comes  again  in  the  morning. 

Sir  Benj .    True,  ma'am,  it  not  only  comes  and 


THE   SCHOOL  FOR   SCANDAL.  165 

goes ;  but,  what 's  more,  egad,  her  maid  can  fetch 
and  carry  it  I 

Mrs.  Can.  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  how  I  hate  to  hear  you 
talk  so !  But  surely,  now,  her  sister  is,  or  was,  very 
handsome. 

Crab.  Who  ?  Mrs.  Evergreen  ?  O  Lord !  she  's 
six-and-fifty  if  she 's  an  hour  ! 

Mrs.  Can.  Now  positively  you  wrong  her ;  fifty- 
two  or  fifty-three  is  the  utmost — and  I  don't  think 
she  looks  more. 

Sir  Benj '.  Ah!  there's  no  judging  by  her  looks, 
unless  one  could  see  her  face. 

Lady  Sneer.  Well,  well,  if  Mrs.  Evergreen  does 
take  some  pains  to  repair  the  ravages  of  time,  you 
must  allow  she  effects  it  with  great  ingenuity ;  and 
surely  that 's  better  than  the  careless  manner  in 
which  the  widow  Ochre  caulks  her  wrinkles. 

Sir  Benj .  Nay,  now,-  Lady  Sneerwell,  you  are 
severe  upon  the  widow.  Come,  come,  't  is  not  that 
she  paints  so  ill  —  but,  when  she  has  finished  her 
face,  she  joins  it  on  so  badly  to  her  neck,  that  she 
looks  like  a  mended  statue,  in  which  the  connoisseur 
may  see  at  once  that  the  head  is  modern,  though  the 
trunk  's  antique. 

Crab.    Ha!  ha!  ha!     Well  said,  nephew. 

Mrs.  Can.  Ha !  ha !  ha !  Well,  you  make  me 
laugh  ;  but  I  vow  I  hate  you  for  it.  —  What  do  you 
think  of  Miss  Simper  ? 

Sir  Benj.    Why,  she  has  very  pretty  teeth. 

Lady  Teaz.  Yes ;  and  on  that  account,  when  she 
is  neither  speaking  nor  laughing  (which  very  seldom 
happens),  she  never  absolutely  shuts  her  mouth,  but 
leaves  it  always  on  a-jar,  as  it  were — thus. 

[Shows  her  teeth. 

Mrs.  Can.    How  can  you  be  so  ill-natured  ? 


1 66  SHERIDAN'S   COMEDIES. 

Lady  Teaz.  Nay,  I  allow  even  that 's  better  than 
the  pains  Mrs.  Prim  takes  to  conceal  her  losses  in 
front.  She  draws  her  mouth  till  it  positively  resem- 
bles the  aperture  of  a  poor's-box,  and  all  her  words 
appear  to  slide  out  edgewise,  as  it  were  —  thus : 
How  do  you  do,  madam  ?  Yes,  madam.  \Mimics. 

Lady  Sneer.  Very  well,  Lady  Teazle ;  I  see  you 
can  be  a  little  severe. 

Lady  Teaz.  In  defence  of  a  friend  it  is  but 
justice.  —  But  here  comes  Sir  Peter  to  spoil  our 
pleasantry. 

Enter  SIR  PETER  TEAZLE. 

Sir  Peter.  Ladies,  your  most  obedient.  —  \AsideI\ 
Mercy  on  me,  here  is  the  whole  set !  a  character 
dead  at  every  word,  I  suppose. 

Mrs.  Can.  I  am  rejoiced  you  are  come,  Sir  Peter. 
They  have  been  so  censorious  —  and  Lady  Teazle 
as  bad  as  any  one. 

Sir  Peter.  That  must  be  very  distressing  to  you, 
indeed,  Mrs.  Candour. 

Mrs.  Can.  Oh,  they  will  allow  good  qualities  to 
nobody ;  not  even  good  nature  to  our  friend,  Mrs. 
Pursy. 

Lady  Teaz.  What,  the  fat  dowager  who  was  at 
Mrs.  Quadrille's  last  night  ? 

Mrs.  Can.  Nay,  her  bulk  is  her  misfortune ;  and, 
when  she  takes  so  much  pains  to  get  rid  of  it,  you 
ought  not  to  reflect  on  her. 

Lady  Sneer.    That 's  very  true,  indeed. 

Lady  Teaz.  Yes,  I  know  she  almost  lives  on  acids 
and  small  whey ;  laces  herself  by  pulleys ;  and  often, 
in  the  hottest  noon  in  summer,  you  may  see  her  on 
a  little  squat  pony,  with  her  hair  plaited  up  behind 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR   SCANDAL.  167 

like  a  drummer's  and  puffing  round  the  Ring  on  a 
full  trot. 

Mrs.  Can.  I  thank  you,  Lady  Teazle,  for  defend- 
ing her. 

Sir  Peter.    Yes,  a  good  defence,  truly. 

Mrs.  Can.  Truly,  Lady  Teazle  is  as  censorious  as 
Miss  Sallow. 

Crab.  Yes,  and  she  is  a  curious  being  to  pretend 
to  be  censorious  —  an  awkward  gawky,  without  any 
one  good  point  under  heaven. 

Mrs.  Can.  Positively  you  shall  not  be  so  very 
severe.  Miss  Sallow  is  a  near  relation  of  mine  by 
marriage,  and,  as  for  her  person,  great  allowance  is 
to  be  made ;  for,  let  me  tell  you,  a  woman  labours 
under  many  disadvantages  who  tries  to  pass  for  a 
girl  of  six-and- thirty. 

Lady  Sneer.  Though,  surely,  she  is  handsome 
still  —  and  for  the  weakness  in  her  eyes,  considering 
how  much  she  reads  by  candle-light,  it  is  not  to  be 
wondered  at. 

Mrs.  Can.  True,  and  then  as  to  her  manner;  upon 
my  word,  I  think  it  is  particularly  graceful,  consider- 
ing she  never  had  the  least  education  :  for  you  know 
her  mother  was  a  Welsh  milliner,  and  her  father  a 
sugar-baker  at  Bristol. 

Sir  Benj.  Ah !  you  are  both  of  you  too  good-na- 
tured ! 

Sir  Peter.  Yes,  damned  good-natured  !  This  their 
own  relation  Lmercy  on  me  !  [Aside. 

Mrs.  Can.\J?Qi  my  part,  I  own  I  cannot  bear  to 
hear  a  friend  ill  spoken  of. 

Sir  Peter.    No,  to  be  sure  ! 

Sir  Benj.  Oh !  you  are  of  a  moral  turn.  Mrs. 
Candour  and  I  can  sit  for  an  hour  and  hear  Lady 
Stucco  talk  sentiment. 


168  SHERIDAN'S   COMEDIES. 

Lady  Teaz.  Nay,  I  vow  Lady  Stucco  is  very  well 
with  the  dessert  after  dinner ;  for  she  's  just  like  the 
French  fruit  one  cracks  for  mottoes  —  made  up  of 
paint  and  proverb. 

Mrs.  Can.  Well,  I  will  never  join  in  ridiculing  a 
friend  ;  and  so  I  constantly  tell  my  cousin  Ogle,  and 
you  all  know  what  pretensions  she  has  to  be  critical 
on  beauty. 

Crab.  Oh,  to  be  sure  !  she  has  herself  the  oddest 
countenance  that  ever  was  seen ;  't  is  a  collection 
of  features  from  all  the  different  countries  of  the 
globe. 

Sir  Benj.    So  she  has,  indeed  —  an  Irish  front 

Crab.    Caledonian  locks 

Sir  Benj.    Dutch  nose 

Crab.    Austrian  lips  — 

Sir  Benj.    Complexion  of  a  Spaniard  — 

Crab.    And  teeth  a  la  Chinoise 

Sir  Benj.  In  short,  her  face  resembles  a  table 
d'hote  at  Spa —  where  no  two  guests  are  of  a  nation 

Crab.  Or  a  congress  at  the  close  of  a  general  war 
—  wherein  all  the  members,  even  to  her  eyes,  appear 
to  have  a  different  interest,  and  her  nose  and  chin 
are  the  only  parties  likely  to  join  issue. 

Mrs.  Can.    Ha!  ha!  ha! 

Sir  Peter.  Mercy  on  my  life  !  —  a  person  they  dine 
with  twice  a  week  !  [Aside. 

Lady  Sneer.  Go,  go  ;  you  are  a  couple  of  provok- 
ing toads. 

Mrs.  Can.  Nay,  but  I  vow  you  shall  not  carry  the 
laugh  off  so  —  for  give  me  leave  to  say  that  Mrs. 
Ogle- 

Sir  Peter.  Madam,  madam,  I  beg  your  pardon  — 
there  's  no  stopping  these  good  gentlemen's  tongues. 


THE   SCHOOL  FOR   SCANDAL.  169 

But  when  I  tell  you,  Mrs.  Candour,  that  the  lady 
they  are  abusing  is  a  particular  friend  of  mine,  I  hope 
you  '11  not  take  her  part. 

Lady  Sneer.  Ha !  ha !  ha !  well  said,  Sir  Peter  ! 
but  you  are  a  cruel  creature  —  too  phlegmatic  your- 
self for  a  jest,  and  too  peevish  to  allow  wit  in  others. 

Sir  Peter.  Ah,  madam,  true  wit  is  more  nearly 
allied  to  good-nature  than  your  ladyship  is  aware 
of. 

Lady  Teaz.  True,  Sir  Peter  :  I  believe  they  are  so 
near  akin  that  they  can  never  be  united. 

Sir  Benj.  Or  rather,  madam,  suppose  them  man 
and  wife,  because  one  seldom  sees  them  together. 

Lady  Teaz.  But  Sir  Peter  is  such  an  enemy  to 
scandal,  I  believe  he  would  have  it  put  down  by 
parliament. 

Sir  Peter.  'Fore  heaven,  madam,  if  they  were  to 
consider  the  sporting  with  reputation  of  as  much  im- 
portance as  poaching  on  manors,  and  pass  an  act  for 
the  preservation  of  fame,  as  well  as  game,  I  believe 
many  would  thank  them  for  the  bill. 

Lady  Sneer.  O  Lud  !  Sir  Peter  ;  would  you  deprive 
us  of  our  privileges  ? 

Sir  Peter.  Ay,  madam,  and  then  no  person  should 
be  permitted  to  kill  characters  and  run  down  repu- 
tations, but  qualified  old  maids  and  disappointed 
widows. 

Lady  Sneer.    Go,  you  monster  ! 

Mrs.  Can.  But,  surely,  you  would  not  be  quite  so 
severe  on  those  who  only  report  what  they  hear  ? 

Sir  Peter.  Yes,  madam,  I  would  have  law  merchant 
for  them  too ;  and  in  all  cases  of  slander  currency, 
whenever  the  drawer  of  the  lie  was  not  to  be  found, 
the  injured  party  should  have  a  right  to  come  on  any 
of  the  indorsers. 


I/O  SHERIDAN1  S   COMEDIES. 

Crab.  Well,  for  my  part,  I  believe  there  never  was 
a  scandalous  tale  without  some  foundation. 

Sir  Peter.  Oh,  nine  out  of  ten  of  the  malicious  in- 
ventions are  founded  on  some  ridiculous  misrepre- 
sentation. 

Lady  Sneer.  Come,  ladies,  shall  we  sit  down  to 
cards  in  the  next  room  ? 

Enter  SERVANT,  who  whispers  SIR  PETER. 

Sir  Peter.  I  '11  be  with  them  directly.  —  \Exit 
SERVANT.]  I  '11  get  away  unperceived.  \Aside. 

Lady  Sneer.  Sir  Peter,  you  are  not  going  to  leave 
us  ? 

Sir  Peter.  Your  ladyship  must  excuse  me  ;  I  'm 
called  away  by  particular  business.  But  I  leave  my 
character  behind  me.  \Exit  SIR  PETER. 

Sir  Benj.  Well  —  certainly jVLady  Teazle,  that  lord 
of  yours  is  a  strange  being :  I  could  tell  you  some 
stories  of  him  would  make  you  laugh  heartily  if  he 
were  not  your  husband. 

Lady  Teaz.  Oh,  pray  don't  mind  that ;  come,  do 
let 's  hear  them. 

{Exeunt  all  but  JOSEPH  SURFACE  and  MARIA. 

Jos.  Surf.  Maria,  I  see  you  have  no  satisfaction  in 
this  society. 

Mar.  How  is  it  possible  I  should  ?  —  If  to  raise 
malicious  smiles  at  the  infirmities  or  misfortunes  of 
those  who  have  never  injured  us  be  the  province  of 
wit  or  humour,  Heaven  grant  me  a  double  portion 
of  dulness  ! 

Jos.  Surf.  Yet  they  appear  more  ill-natured  than 
they  are  ;  they  have  no  malice  at  heart. 

Mar.  Then  is  their  conduct  still  more  contempt- 
ible ;  for,  in  my  opinion,  nothing  could  excuse  the 


THE   SCHOOL  FOR   SCANDAL.  \J\ 

intemperance  of  their  tongues  but  a  natural  and  un- 
controllable bitterness  of  mind. 

Jos.  Surf.  Undoubtedly,  madam  ;  and  it  has  always 
been  a  sentiment  of  mine,  that  to  propagate  a  mali- 
cious truth  wantonly  is  more  despicable  than  to  fal- 
sify from  revenge.  But  can  you,  Maria,  feel  thus  for 
others,  and  be  unkind  to  me  alone  ?  Is  hope  to  be 
denied  the  tenderest  passion  ? 

Mar.  Why  will  you  distress  me  by  renewing  this 
subject  ? 

Jos.  Surf.  Ah,  Maria !  you  would  not  treat  me 
thus,  and  oppose  your  guardian,  St.  Peter's  will,  but 
that  I  see  that  profligate  Charles  is  still  a  favoured 
rival ! 

Mar.  Ungenerously  urged !  But,  whatever  my 
sentiments  are  for  that  unfortunate  young  man,  be 
assured  I  shall  not  feel  more  bound  to  give  him  up, 
because  his  distresses  have  lost  him  the  regard  even 
of  a  brother. 

Jos.  Surf.  Nay,  but,  Maria,  do  not  leave  me  with  a 
frown  :  by  all  that 's  honest,  I  swear \Kneels. 

Reenter  LADY  TEAZLE  behind. 

[Aside.]  Gad's  life,  here  's  Lady  Teazle.  —  [Aloud 
to  MARIA.]  You  must  not  —  no,  you  shall  not  — 
for,  though  I  have  the  greatest  regard  for  Lady 
Teazle 

Mar.   Lady  Teazle ! 

Jos.  Surf.   Yet  were  Sir  Peter  to  suspect  — 

Lady  Teaz.  \Coming  forward]  What  is  this, 
pray  ?  Does  he  take  her  for  me  ?  —  Child,  you  are 
wanted  in  the  next  room.  —  [Exit  MARIA.]  What  is 
all  this,  pray  ? 

Jos.  Surf.  Oh,  the  most  unlucky  circumstance  in 
nature !  Maria  has  somehow  suspected  the  tender 


1/2  SHERIDAN'S    COMEDIES. 

concern  I  have  for  your  happiness,  and  threatened 
to  acquaint  Sir  Peter  with  her  suspicions,  and  I  was 
just  endeavouring  to  reason  with  her  when  you  came 
in. 

Lady  Teaz.  Indeed  !  but  you  seemed  to  adopt  a 
very  tender  mode  of  reasoning  —  do  you  usually 
argue  on  your  knees  ? 

Jos.  Surf.    Oh,  she  ?s  a  child,  and  I  thought  a  little 

bombast But,  Lady  Teazle,  when  are  you  to  give 

me  your  judgment  on  my  library,  as  you  promised  ? 

Lady  Teaz.  No,  no ;  I  begin  to  think  it  would  be 
imprudent,  and  you  know  I  admit  you  as  a  lover  no 
farther  than  fashion  requires. 

Jos.  Surf.  True  —  a  mere  Platonic  cicisbeo,  — 
what  every  wife  is  entitled  to. 

'""  Lady  Teaz.  Certainly,  one  must  not  be  out  of  the 
fashion.  —  However,  I  have  so  many  of  my  country 
prejudices  left,  that,  though  Sir  Peter's  ill-humour 
may  vex  me  ever  so,  it  never  shall  provoke  me 
to 

Jos.  Surf.  The  only  revenge  in  your  power.  — 
Well,  I  applaud  your  moderation. 

Lady  Teaz.  Go  —  you  are  an  insinuating  wretch  ! 
But  we  shall  be  missed  —  let  us  join  the  company. 

Jos.  Surf.    But  we  had  best  not  return  together. 

Lady  Teaz.  Well,  don't  stay ;  for  Maria  shan't 
come  to  hear  any  more  of  your  reasoning,  I  promise 
you.  \^Exit. 

Jos.  Surf.  A  curious  dilemma,  truly,  my  politics 
have  run  me  into  !  I  wanted,  at  first,  only  to  ingra- 
tiate myself  with  Lady  Teazle,  that  she  might  not 
be  my  enemy  with  Maria ;  and  I  have,  I  don't  know 
how,  become  her  serious  lover.  Sincerely  I  begin 
to  wish  I  had  never  made  such  a  point  of  gaining  so 
very  good  a  character,  for  it  has  led  me  into  so  many 


THE   SCHOOL  FOR   SCANDAL.  1/3 

cursed  rogueries  that  I  doubt  I  shall  be  exposed  at 
last.  [Exit. 


SCENE  III.  — A  Room  in  SIR  PETER  TEAZLE'S  House. 
Enter  SIR  OLIVER  SURFACE  and  ROWLEY. 

Sir  Oliv.  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  so  my  old  friend  is  mar- 
ried, hey  ?  —  a  young  wife  out  of  the  country.  Ha  ! 
ha!  ha!  that  he  should  have  stood  bluff  to  old  bach- 
elor so  long,  and  sink  into  a  husband  at  last ! 

Row.  But  you  must  not  rally  him  on  the  subject, 
Sir  Oliver ;  't  is  a  tender  point.  I  assure  you,  though 
he  has  been  married  only  seven  months. 

Sir  Oliv.  Then  he  has  been  just  half  a  year  on  the 
stool  of  repentance  !  —  Poor  Peter  !  But  you  say  he 
has  entirely  given  up  Charles  —  never  sees  him,  hey  ? 

Row.  His  prejudice  against  him  is  astonishing, 
anol  I  am  sure  greatly  increased  by  a  jealousy  of 
him  with  Lady  Teazle,  which  he  has  industriously 
been  led  into  by  a  scandalous  society  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood, who  have  contributed  not  a  little  to  Charles's 
ill  name.  Whereas,  the  truth  is,  I  believe,  if  the  lady 
is  partial  to  either  of  them,  his  brother  is  the  favourite. 

Sir  Oliv.  Ay,  I  know  there  is  a  set  of  malicious, 
prating,  prudent  gossips,  both  male  and  female,  who 
murder  characters  to  kill  time,  and  will  rob  a  young 
fellow  of  his  good  name  before  he  has  years  to  know 
the  value  of  it. — But  I  am  not  to  be  prejudiced 
against  my  nephew  by  such,  I  promise  you !  —  No, 
no  ;  if  Charles  has  done  nothing  false  or  mean,  I 
shall  compound  for  his  extravagance. 

Row.  Then,  my  life  on  't,  you  will  reclaim  him. — 
Ah,  sir,  it  gives  me  new  life  to  find  that  your  heart  is 


174  SHERIDAN'S   COMEDIES. 

not  turned  against  him,  and  that  the  son  of  my  good 

old  master  has  one  friend,  however,  left. 
r     Sir  Oliv.    What !    shall  I  forget,  Master  Rowley, 

when  I  was  at  his  years  myself  ?     Egad,  my  brother 

and  I  were  neither  of  us  very  prudent  youths ;  and 
\  yet,  I  believe,  you  have  not  seen  many  better  men 

than  your  old  master  was  ? 

Row.    Sir,  't  is  this  reflection  gives  me  assurance 

that  Charles  may  yet  be  a  credit  to  his  family.  — 

But  here  comes  Sir  Peter ! 

Sir  Oliv.    Egad,  so  he  does !  Mercy  on  me !  he  's 

greatly  altered,  and  seems  to  have  a  settled  married 

look !  ..One  may  read  husband  in  his  face  at  this 

distance ! 

Enter  SIR  PETER  TEAZLE. 

Sir  Peter.  Ha  !  Sir  Oliver  —  my  old  friend  !  Wel- 
come to  England  a  thousand  times  ! 

Sir  Oliv.  Thank  you,  thank  you,  Sir  Peter !  and 
i'  faith  I  am  glad  to  find  you  well,  believe  me  ! 

Sir  Peter.  Oh !  \  is  a  long  time  since  we  met  — 
fifteen  years,  I  doubt,  Sir  Oliver,  and  many  a  cross 
accident  in  the  time. 

Sir  Oliv.  Ay,  I  have  had  my  share.  But,  what ! 
I  find  you  are  married,  hey,  my  old  boy?  Well, 
well,  it  can't  be  helped  ;  and  so  —  I  wish  you  joy 
with  all  my  heart ! 

Sir  Peter.  Thank  you,  thank  you,  Sir  Oliver.  — 
Yes,  I  have  entered  into  —  the  happy  state  ;  —  but 
we  '11  not  talk  of  that  now. 

Sir  Oliv.  True,  true,  Sir  Peter;  old  friends  should 
not  begin  on  grievances  at  first  meeting.  No,  no 
no — — 

Row.  [Aside  to  SIR  OLIVER.]  Take  care,  pray, 
sir. — 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL.      175 

Sir  Oliv.  Well,  so  one  of  my  nephews  is  a  wild 
rogue,  hey? 

Sir  Peter.  Wild  !  Ah  !  my  old  friend,  I  grieve  for 
your  disappointment  there;  he  's  a  lost  young  man, 
indeed.  However,  his  brother  will  make  you  amends ; 
Joseph  is,  indeed,  what  a  youth  should  be  —  every- 
body in  the  world  speaks  well  of  h,ifl&. 

Sir  Oliv.  I  am  sorry  to  hear  it  j^-he  has  too  good  a 
character  to  be  an  honest  fellow.  Everybody  speaks 
well  of  him  !  Pshaw !  then  he  has  bowed  as  low  to 
knaves  and.fools  as  to  the  honest  dignity  of  genius 
and  virtue-/ 

Sir  Peter.  What,  Sir  Oliver !  do  you  blame  him  for 
not  making  enemies  ? 

Sir  Oliv.  Yes,  if  he  has  merit  enough  to  deserve 
them. 

Sir  Peter.  Well,  well,  you  '11  be  convinced  when 
you  know  him.  'T  is  edification  to  hear  him  con- 
verse ;  he  professes  the  noblest  sentiments. 

Sir  Oliv.  Oh,  plague  of  his  sentiments!  If  he 
salutes  me  with  a  scrap  of  morality  in  his  mouth,  I 
shall  be  sick  directly.  But,  however,  don't  mistake 
me,  Sir  Peter  ;  I  don't  mean  to  defend  Charles's 
errors  :  but,  before  I  form  my  judgment  of  either  of 
them,  I  intend  to  make  a  trial  of  their  hearts ;  and 
my  friend  Rowley  and  I  have  planned  something 
for  the  purpose. 

Row.  And  Sir  Peter  shall  own  for  once  he  has 
been  mistaken. 

Sir  Peter.    Oh,  my  life  on  Joseph's  honour  ! 

Sir  Oliv.  Well  —  come,  give  us  a  bottle  of  good 
wine,  and  we  '11  drink  the  lads'  health,  and  tell  you 
our  scheme. 

Sir  Peter.   Allans,  then  ! 

Sir  Oliv.   And   don't,    Sir   Peter,   be    so    severe 


1/6  SHERIDAN'S   COMEDIES. 

against  your  old  friend's  son.  Odds  my  life!  I  am 
not  sorry  that  he  has  run  out  of  the  course  a  little  : 
for  my  part,  I  hate  to  see  prudence  clinging  to  the 
green  suckers  of  youth  ;  't  is  like  ivy  round  a  sap- 
ling, and  spoils  the  growth  of  the  tree.  [Exeunt. 


THE   SCHOOL  FOR   SCANDAL. 


ACT    III. 

SCENE  I.  —  A  Room  in  SIR  PETER  TEAZLE'S  House. 

Enter  SIR  PETER  TEAZLE,  SIR  OLIVER  SURFACE,  and 
ROWLEY. 

Sir  Peter.  Well,  then  we  will  see  this  fellow  first, 
and  have  our  wine  afterwards.  —  But  how  is  this, 
Master  Rowley?  I  don't  see  the  jet  of  your  scheme. 

Roiv.  Why,  sir,  this  Mr.  Stanley,  whom  I  was 
speaking  of,  is  nearly  related  to  them  by  their 
mother.  He  was  once  a  merchant  in  Dublin,  but 
has  been  ruined  by  a  series  of  undeserved  misfor- 
tunes. He  has  applied,  by  letter,  both  to  Mr.  Sur- 
face and  Charles :  from  the  former  he  has  received 
nothing  but  evasive  promises  of  future  service,  while 
Charles  has  done  all  that  his  extravagence  has  left 
him  power  to  do  ;  and  he  is,  at  this  time,  endeavour- 
ing to  raise  a  sum  of  money,  part  of  which,  in  the 
midst  of  his  own  distresses,  I  know  he  intends  for 
the  service  of  poor  Stanley. 

Sir  Oliv.    Ah  !  he  is  my  brother's  son. 

Sir  Peter.  Well,  but  how  is  Sir  Oliver  personally 
to 

Row.  Why,  sir,  I  will  inform  Charles  and  his 
brother,  that  Stanley  has  obtained  permission  to 
apply  personally  to  his  friends ;  and,  as  they  have 
neither  of  them  ever  seen  him,  let  Sir  Oliver  assume 
his  character,  and  he  will  have  a  fair  opportunity  of 
judging,  at  least,  of  the  benevolence  of  their  disposi- 


178  SHERIDAN'S   COMEDIES. 

tions  :  and  believe  me,  sir,  you  will  find  in  the 
youngest  brother  one  who,  in  the  midst  of  folly  and 
dissipation,  has  still  as  our  immortal  bard  expresses 
it,— 

"a  heart  to  pity,  and  a  hand, 
I    Open  as  day,  for  melting  charity." 

Sir  Peter.  Pshaw !  What  signifies  his  having  an 
open  hand  or  purse  either,  when  he  has  nothing  left 
to  give  ?  Well,  well,  —  make  the  trial,  if  you  please. 
But  where  is  the  fellow  whom  you  brought  for  Sir 
Oliver  to  examine,  relative  to  Charles's  affairs  ? 

Row.  Below,  waiting  his  commands,  and  no  one 
can  give  him  better  intelligence.  —  This,  Sir  Oliver, 
is  a  friendly  Jew,  who,  to  do  him  justice,  has  done 
everything  in  his  power  to  bring  your  nephew  to  a 
proper  sense  of  his  extravagance. 

Sir  Peter.    Pray  let  us  have  him  in. 

Row.    Desire  Mr.  Moses  to  walk  upstairs. 

[Apart  to  SERVANT. 

Sir  Peter.  But,  pray,  why  should  you  suppose  he 
will  speak  the  truth  ? 

Row.  Oh,  I  have  convinced  him  that  he  has  no 
chance  of  recovering  certain  sums  advanced  to 
Charles  but  through  the  bounty  of  Sir  Oliver,  who 
he  knows  is  arrived ;  so  that  you  may  depend  on 
his  fidelity  to  his  own  interests.  I  have  also  another 
evidence  in  my  power,  one  Snake,  whom  I  have  de- 
tected in  a  matter  little  short  of  forgery,  and  shall 
shortly  produce  to  remove  some  of  your  prejudices, 
Sir  Peter,  relative  to  Charles  and  Lady  Teazle. 

Sir  Peter.    I  have  heard  too  much  on  that  subject. 

Row.   Here  comes  the  honest  Israelite. 

Enter  MOSES. 
—  This  is  Sir  Oliver. 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL.  179 

Sir  Oliv.  Sir,  I  understand  you  have  lately  had 
great  dealings  with  my  nephew  Charles. 

Mos.  Yes,  Sir  Oliver,  I  have  done  all  I  could  for 
him ;  but  he  was  ruined  before  he  came  to  me  for 
assistance. 

Sir  Oliv.  That  was  unlucky,  truly ;  for  you  have 
had  no  opportunity  of  showing  your  talents. 

Mos'.  None  at  all ;  I  had  n't  the  pleasure  of  know- 
ing his  distresses  till  he  was  some  thousands  worse 
than  nothing. 

Sir  Oliv.  Unfortunate,  indeed  !  —  But  I  suppose 
you  have  done  all  in  your  power  for  him,  honest 
Moses  ? 

Mos.  Yes,  he  knows  that.  —  This  very  evening  I 
was  to  have  brought  him  a  gentleman  from  the  city, 
who  does  not  know  him,  and  will,  I  believe,  advance 
him  some  money. 

Sir  Peter.  What  —  one  Charles  has  never  had 
money  from  before  ? 

Mos.  Yes,  Mr.  Premium,  of  Crutched  Friars, 
formerly  a  broker. 

Sir  Peter.  Egad,  Sir  Oliver,  a  thought  strikes  me  ! 
—  Charles,  you  say,  does  not  know  Mr.  Premium  ? 

Mos.    Not  at  all. 

Sir  Peter.  Now  then,  Sir  Oliver,  you  may  have  a 
better  opportunity  of  satisfying  yourself  than  by  an 
old  romancing  tale  of  a  poor  relation  !  go  with  my 
friend  Moses,  and  represent  Premium,  and  then,  I  '11 
answer  for  it,  you  '11  see  your  nephew  in  all  his 
glory. 

Sir  Oliv.  Egad,  I  like  this  idea  better  than  the 
other,  and  I  may  visit  Joseph  afterwards  as  old 
Stanley. 

Sir  Peter.    True  —  so  you  may. 

Row.   Well,  this  is  taking  Charles  rather  at  a  dis- 


180  SHE  RID  AN1  S   COMEDIES. 

advantage,  to  be  sure.  However,  Moses,  you  under- 
stand Sir  Peter,  and  will  be  faithful  ? 

Mas.  You  may  depend  upon  me.  —  [Looks  at  his 
watch.]  This  is  near  the  time  I  was  to  have  gone. 

Sir  Oliv.  I  '11  accompany  you  as  soon  as  you 

please,  Moses But  hold !  I  have  forgot  one 

thing  —  how  the  plague  shall  I  be  able  to  pass  for 
a  Jew? 

Mos.    There  's  no  need  —  the  principal  is  Christian. 

Sir  Oliv.  Is  he  ?  I  'm  very  sorry  to  hear  it.  But, 
then  again,  an't  I  rather  too  smartly  dressed  to  look 
like  a  money-lender  ? 

Sir  Peter.  Not  at  all :  't  would  not  be  out  of  char- 
acter, if  you  went  in  your  own  carriage  —  would  it, 
Moses  ? 

Mos.    Not  in  the  least. 

Sir  Oliv.  Well,  but  how  must  I  talk  ?  there  's  cer- 
tainly some  cant  of  usury  and  mode  of  treating  that  I 
ought  to  know. 

Sir  Peter.  Oh,  there  's  not  much  to  learn.  The 
great  point,  as  I  take  it,  is  to  be  exorbitant  enough  in 
your  demands.  Hey,  Moses  ? 

Mos.    Yes,  that 's  a  very  great  point. 

Sir  Oliv.  I  '11  answer  for  't  I  '11  not  be  wanting  in 
that.  I  '11  ask  him  eight  or  ten  per  cent  on  the  loan, 
at  least. 

Mos.  If  you  ask  him  no  more  than  that,  you  '11  be 
discovered  immediately. 

Sir  Oliv.  Hey!  —  what  the  plague  —  how  much 
then? 

Mos.  That  depends  upon  the  circumstances.  If 
he  appears  not  very  anxious  for  the  supply,  you  should 
require  only  forty  or  fifty  per  cent ;  but  if  you  find  him 
in  great  distress,  and  want  the  moneys  very  bad,  you 
may  ask  double. 


THE  SCHOOL   FOR   SCANDAL.  l8l 

Sir  Peter.  A  good  honest  trade  you  're  learning, 
Sir  Oliver ! 

Sir  Oliv.    Truly,  I  think  so  —  and  not  unprofitable. 

Mos.  Then,  you  know,  you  have  n't  the  moneys 
yourself,  but  are  forced  to  borrow  them  for  him  of  a 
friend. 

Sir  Oliv.    Oh  !  I  borrow  it  of  a  friend,  do  I  ? 

Mos.  And  your  friend  is  an  unconscionable  dog : 
but  you  can't  help  that. 

Sir  Oliv.  My  friend  an  unconscionable  dog,  is 
he? 

Mos.  Yes,  and  he  himself  has  not  the  moneys  by 
him,  but  is  forced  to  sell  stock  at  a  great  loss. 

Sir  Oliv.  He  is  forced  to  sell  stock  at  a  great  loss, 
is  he  ?  Well,  that 's  very  kind  of  him. 

Sir  Peter.  I' faith,  Sir  Oliver  —  Mr.  Premium,  I 
mean — you'll  soon  be  master  of  the  trade.  But, 
Moses  !  would  not  you  have  him  run  out  a  little 
against  the  Annuity  Bill  ?  That  would  be  in  charac- 
ter, I  should  think. 

Mos.   Very  much. 

Row.  And  lament  that  a  young  man  now  must  be 
at  years  of  discretion  before  he  is  suffered  to  ruin 
himself. 

Mos.    Ay,  great  pity. 

Sir  Peter.  And  abuse  the  public  for  allowing  merit 
to  an  act  whose  only  object  is  to  snatch  misfortune 
and  imprudence  from  the  rapacious  gripe  of  usury, 
and  give  the  minor  a  chance  of  inheriting  his  estate 
without  being  undone  by  coming  into  possession. 

Sir  Oliv.  So,  so  —  Moses  shall  give  me  farther 
instructions  as  we  go  together. 

Sir  Peter.  You  will  not  have  much  time,  for  your 
nephew  lives  hard  by. 

Sir  Oliv.   Oh,  never  fear  !  my  tutor  appears  so  able, 


1 82  SHERIDAN'S   COMEDIES. 

that  though  Charles  lived  in  the  next  street,  it  must 
be  my  own  fault  if  I  am  not  a  complete  rogue  before 
I  turn  the  corner.  \_Exit  with  MOSES. 

Sir  Peter.  So,  now,  I  think  Sir  Oliver  will  be  con- 
vinced :  you  are  partial,  Rowley,  and  would  have 
prepared  Charles  for  the  other  plot. 

Row.    No,  upon  my  word,  Sir  Peter. 

Sir  Peter.  Well,  go  bring  me  this  Snake,  and  I  '11 
hear  what  he  has  to  say  presently.  —  I  see  Maria,  and 
want  to  speak  with  her.  —  [Exit  ROWLEY.]  I  should 
be  glad  to  be  convinced  my  suspicions  of  Lady  Teazle 
and  Charles  were  unjust.  I  have  never  yet  opened 
my  mind  on  this  subject  to  my  friend  Joseph  —  I  am 
determined  I  will  do  it  —  he  will  give  me  his  opinion 
sincerely. 

Enter  MARIA. 

So,  child,  has  Mr.  Surface  returned  with  you  ? 

Mar.    No,  sir  ;  he  was  engaged. 

Sir  Peter.  Well,  Maria,  do  you  not  reflect,  the 
more  you  converse  with  that  amiable  young  man, 
what  return  his  partiality  for  you  deserves  ? 

Mar.  Indeed,  Sir  Peter,  your  frequent  importunity 
on  this  subject  distresses  me  extremely  —  you  com- 
pel me  to  declare  that  I  know  no  man  who  has  ever 
paid  me  a  particular  attention  whom  I  would  not 
prefer  to  Mr.  Surface. 

Sir  Peter.  So  —  here  's  perverseness  !  —  No,  no, 
Maria,  't  is  Charles  only  whom  you  would  prefer. 
'T  is  evident  his  vices  and  follies  have  won  your 
heart. 

Mar.  This  is  unkind,  sir.  You  know  I  have 
obeyed  you  in  neither  seeing  nor  corresponding  with 
him  :  I  have  heard  enough  to  convince  me  that  he  is 
unworthy  my  regard.  Yet  I  cannot  think  it  culpable, 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL.  183 

if,  while  my  understanding  severely  condemns  his 
vices,  my  heart  suggests  some  pity  for  his  distresses. 

Sir  Peter.  Well,  well,  pity  him  as  much  as  you 
please  ;  but  give  your  heart  and  hand  to  a  worthier 
object. 

Mar.    Never  to  his  brother  ! 

Sir  Peter.  Go,  perverse  and  obstinate  !  But  take 
care,  madam ;  you  have  never  yet  known  what  the 
authority  of  a  guardian  is :  don't  compel  me  to  inform 
you  of  it. 

Mar.  I  can  only  say  you  shall  not  have  just 
reason.  'T  is  true,  by  my  father's  will,  I  am  for  a 
short  period  bound  to  regard  you  as  his  substi- 
tute ;  but  must  cease  to  think  you  so,  when  you 
would  compel  me  to  be  miserable.  [Exit  MARIA. 

Sir  Peter.  Was  ever  man  so  crossed  as  I  am  ? 
everything  conspiring  to  fret  me  !  I  had  not  been 
involved  in  matrimony  a  fortnight,  before  her  father, 
a  hale  and  hearty  man,  died,  on  purpose,  I  believe, 
for  the  pleasure  of  plaguing  me  with  the  care  of  his 
daughter.  —  [Lady  Teazle  sings  without  I\  But  here 
comes  my  helpmate !  She  appears  in  great  good 
humour.  How  happy  I  should  be  if  I  could  tease 
her  into  loving  me,  though  but  a  little  1 

Enter  LADY  TEAZLE. 

Lady  Teaz.  Lud !  \  Sir  Peter,  I  hope  you  have  n't 
been  quarrelling  »with  !V£g£ia.?  \  Iris  not  using  me 
wellito  be  ill-humoured  when  I  am  not  by. 

Sir  Peter.  Ah,  Lady  Teazle,  you  might  have  the 
power  to  make  me  good-humoured  at  all  times. 

Lady  Teaz.  I  am  sure  J  wish  I  had  ;  for  I  want 
you  to  be  in  a  charming  sweet  temper? at  this  mo- 
ment. Do  be  good-humoured  now,  and  let  me  have* 
two  hundred  pounds,  will  you  ? 


1 84  SHERIDAN'S   COMEDIES. 

Sir  Peter.    Two  hundred  pounds ;  what,  ar 
be  in  a  good  humour  without  paying  for  it 
speak  to  me  thus,  and  i' faith  there  's  nothing  1  could 
refuse  you.     You  shall  have  it ;  but  seal  me  a  bond 
for  the  repayment. 

^Lady  Teaz.    Oh,    no  —  there  —  my  note    of   hand 
w'ill  do  as  well.  ^Offering  her  hand. 

Sir  Peter.  And  you  shall  no  longer  reproach  me 
with  not  giving  you  an  independent  settlement.  I 
mean  shortly  to  surprise  you  :  —  but  shall  we  always 
live  thus,  hey  ? 

Lady  Teaz.  If  you  please.  I  ;m  sure  I  don't  care 
how  soon  we  leave  off  quarrelling,  provided  you  '11 
own; you  were  tired  first. 

Sir  Peter.  Well — then  let  our  future  contest  be, 
who  shall  be  most  obliging. 

Lady  Teaz.  I  assure  you,  Sir  Peter,;  good  nature 
becomes  you.  You  look  now.  as  you  did  "before  we 
were  married,  when  you  used  to  walk  with  meander 
the  elms,  and  tell  me  stories  of  what  a  gallant  you 
were  in  your  youth,  and  chuck  me  under  the  chin, 
you  would ;  and  ask  met  if  I  thought  I  could  love  an 
old  fellow. who  would  deny  me  nothing — did  n't  you  ? 

Sir  Peter.  Yes,  yes,  and  you  were  as  kind  and 
attentive 

Lady  Teaz.  Ay,  so  I  was,  and  would  always  (take 
your  part, | when  my  acquaintance  used  to  abuse  you, 
and  turn  you  into  ridicule. 

Sir  Peter.    Indeed ! 

Lady  Teaz.  Ay,  \  and  when  my  cousin  Sophy t has 
called  you  a  stiff,  peevish  old  bachelor,; and  laughed 
at  me  for  thinking  of  marrying  one  who  might  be 
my  father,  I  have  always  defended  you, -and  said,1 
I  didn't  think  you  so  ugly  by  any  means. 

Sir  Peter.   Thank  you. 


THE   SCHOOL  FOR   SCANDAL.  185 

•Teaz.  And  I  dared  say  you  'd  make  a  very 
-  t  of  a  husband. 

Sir  j.  der.  And  you  prophesied  right;  and  we 
shall  now  be  the  happiest  couple  — 

Lady  Teaz.    And  never  differ  again  ? 

Sir  Peter.  No,  never  !  —  though  at  the  same  time, 
indeed,  my  dear  Lady  Teazle,  you  must  watch  your 
temper  very  seriously ;  for  in  all  our  little  quarrels, 
my  clear,  if  you  recollect,  my  love,  you  always  began 
first. 

Lady  Teaz.  I  beg  your  pardon,uny  dear  Sir  Peter  : 
indeed  you  always 'gave  the  provocation.  V 

Sir  Peter.  Now  see,  my  angel !  take  care  —  con- 
tradicting is  n't  the  way  to  keep  friends. 

Lady  Teaz.    Then  don't  you  begin  it,imy  love  ! 

Sir  Peter.  There,  now  !  you  —  you  are  going  on. 
You  don't  perceive,  my  life,  that  you  are  just  doing 
the  very  thing  which  you  know  always  makes  me 
angry. 

Lady  Teaz.  Nay,  you  know  if  you  will  be  angry 
without  any  reason, • my  dear 

Sir  Peter.    There  !  now  you  want  to  quarrel  again. 

Lady  Teaz.  No,jl  'm  sure  I  don't:  but  if  you  will 
be  so  peevish 

Sir  Peter.   There  now  !  who  begins  first  ? 

Lady  Teaz.  Why,  you,\to  be  sure.'  I.  said  nothing 
—  but  there  's  no  bearing  your  temper. 

Sir  Peter.  No,  no,  madam  :  the  fault  's  in  your  own 
temper. 

Lady  Teaz.  Ay,  you  are  just  what  my  cousin 
Sophy  said  you  would  be. 

Sir  Peter.  Your  cousin  Sophy  is  a  forward,  imperti- 
nent gipsy. 

Lady  Teaz.  You  are  a  great  bear,  I  'm  sure,  to 
abuse  my  relations. 


1 86  SHERIDAN'S   COMEDIES. 

Sir  Peter.  Now  may  all  the  plagues  of  marriage 
be  doubled  on  me,  if  ever  I  try  to  be  friends  wich 
you  any  more ! 

Lady  Teaz.    So  much  the  better. 

Sir  Peter.  No,  no,  madam :  't  is  evident  you  never 
cared  a  pin  for  me,  and  I  was  a  madman  to  marry 
you  —  a  pert,  rural  coquette,  that  had  refused  half 
the  honest  'squires  in  the  neighbourhood ! 

Lady  Teaz.  And  I  am  sure  I  was  a  fool  to  marry 
you  —  an  old  dangling  bachelor,  who  was  single  at 
fifty,  only  because  he  never  could  meet  with  any  one 
who  would  have  him. 

Sir  Peter.  Ay,  ay,  madam ;  but  you  were  pleased 
enough  to  listen  to  me :  you  never  had  such  an 
offer  before. 

Lady  Teaz.  No  !  didn't  I  refuse  Sir  Tivy  Terrier, 
who  everybody  said  would  have  been  a  better  match  ? 
for  his  Estate  is  just  as  good  as  yours,  and  he  has 
broke  his  neck  since  we  have  been  married. 

Sir  Peter.  I  have  done  with  you,  madam !  You 
are  an  unfeeling,  ungrateful  —  but  there  's  an  end  of 
everything.  I  believe  you  capable  of  everything 
that  is  bad.  Yes,  madam,  I  now  believe  the  reports 
relative  to  you  and  Charles,  madam.  Yes,  madam, 
you  and  Charles  are,  —  not  without  grounds • 

Lady  Teaz.  Take  care,  Sir  Peter !  you  had  better 
not  insinuate  any  such  thing  !  I  '11  not  be  suspected 
without  cause,  I  promise  you. 

Sir  Peter.  Very  well,  madam  !  very  well !  A  sepa- 
rate maintenance  as  soon  as  you  please.  Yes,  madam, 
or  a  divorce  !  I  '11  make  an  example  of  myself  for  the 
benefit  of  all  old  bachelors.  Let  us  separate,  madam. 

Lady  Teaz.  Agreed  !  agreed  !  And  now,  my  dear 
Sir  Peter,  we  are  of  a  mind  once  more,  we  may  be 
the  happiest  couple,  and  never  differ  again,  you 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR   SCANDAL.  187 

know  :  ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  Well,  you  are  going  to  be  in  a 
passion,  I  see,  and  I  shall  only  interrupt  you  —  so, 
by  !  by  !  [Exit. 

Sir  Peter.  Plagues  and  tortures!  Can't  I  make 
her  angry  either !  Oh,  I  am  the  most  miserable 
fellow  !  But  I  '11  not  bear  her  presuming  to  keep  her 
temper  :  no  !  she  may  break  my  heart,  but  she  shan't 
keep  her  temper.  [Exit. 

SCENE  II. — A  Room  in  CHARLES  SURFACE'S  House. 
Enter  TRIP,  MOSES,  and  SIR  OLIVER  SURFACE. 

Trip.  Here,  Master  Moses  !  if  you  '11  stay  a  mo- 
ment, I  '11  try  whether  —  what 's  the  gentleman's 
name? 

Sir  Oliv.   Mr.  Moses,  what  is  my  name  ? 

[Aside  to  MOSES. 

Mos.    Mr.  Premium. 

Trip.    Premium  —      Very  well. 

[Exit  TRIP,  taking  snuff. 

Sir  Oliv.  To  judge  by  the  servants,  one  would  n't 
believe  the  master  was  ruined.  But  what !  —  sure, 
this  was  my  brother's  house  ? 

Mos.  Yes,  sir;  Mr.  Charles  bought  it  of  Mr. 
Joseph,  with  the  furniture,  pictures,  &c.,  just  as  the 
old  gentleman  left  it.  Sir  Peter  thought  it  a  piece 
of  extravagance  in  him. 

Sir  Oliv.  In  my  mind,  the  other's  economy  in  sell- 
ing it  to  him  was  more  reprehensible  by  half. 

Reenter  TRIP. 

Trip.  My  master  says  you  must  wait,  gentlemen  : 
he  has  company,  and  can't  speak  with  you  yet. 


1 88  SHERIDAN'S   COMEDIES. 

Sir  Oliv.  If  he  knew  who  it  was  wanted  to  see 
him,  perhaps  he  would  not  send  such  a  message  ? 

Trip.  Yes,  yes,  sir ;  he  knows  you  are  here  —  I 
did  not  forget  little  Premium :  no,  no,  no. 

Sir  Oliv.  Very  well ;  and  I  pray,  sir,  what  may 
be  your  name  ? 

Trip.    Trip,  sir  ;  my  name  is  Trip,  at  your  service. 

Sir  Oliv.  Well,  then,  Mr.  Trip,  you  have  a  pleas- 
ant sort  of  place  here,  I  guess  ? 

Trip.  Why,  yes  —  here  are  three  or  four  of  us 
pass  our  time  agreeably  enough  ;  but  then  our  wages 
are  sometimes  a  little  in  arrear  —  and  not  very  great 
either  —  but  fifty  pounds  a  year,  and  find  our  own 
bags  and  bouquets ! 

Sir  Oliv.  Bags  and  bouquets !  halters  and  basti- 
nadoes. [Aside. 

Trip.  And  a  propos,  Moses,  —  have  you  been  able 
to  get  me  that  little  bill  discounted  ? 

Sir  Oliv.  Wants  to  raise  money  too  !  —  mercy  on 
me  !  Has  his  distresses  too,  I  warrant,  like  a  lord, 
and  affects  creditors  and  duns.  \Aside. 

Mos.    'T  was  not  to  be  done,  indeed,  Mr.  Trip. 

Trip.  Good  lack,  you  surprise  me !  My  friend 
Brush  has  indorsed  it,  and  I  thought  when  he  put 
his  name  at  the  back  of  a  bill 't  was  the  same  as  cash. 

Mos.    No,  't  would  n't  do. 

Trip.  A  small  sum  —  but  twenty  pounds.  Hark'ee, 
Moses,  do  you  think  you  could  n't  get  it  me  by  way 
of  annuity  ? 

Sir  Oliv.  An  annuity !  ha !  ha !  a  footman  raise 
money  by  way  of  annuity  !  Well  done,  luxury,  egad  ! 

[Aside. 

Mos.    Well,  but  you  must  insure  your  place. 

Trip.  Oh,  with  all  my  heart !  I  '11  insure  my  place 
and  my  life  too,  if  you  please. 


THE   SCHOOL  FOR   SCANDAL.  189 

Sir  Oliv.    It  is  more  than  I  would  your  neck. 

{Aside. 

Mos.    But  is  there  nothing  you  could  deposit  ? 

Trip.  Why,  nothing  capital  of  my  master's  ward- 
robe has  dropped  lately  ;  but  I  could  give  you  a 
mortgage  on  some  of  his  winter  clothes,  with  equity 
of  redemption  before  November  —  or  you  shall  have 
the  reversion  of  the  French  velvet,  or  a  post-obit  on 
the  blue  and  silver ;  —  these,  I  should  think,  Moses, 
with  a  few  pair  of  point  ruffles,  as  a  collateral  secu- 
rity —  hey,  my  little  fellow  ? 

Mos.    Well,  well.  \Bell  rings. 

Trip.  Egad,  I  heard  the  bell !  I  believe,  gentle- 
men, I  can  now  introduce  you.  Don't  forget  the 
annuity,  little  Moses  !  This  way,  gentlemen,  I  '11 
insure  my  place,  you  know. 

Sir  Oliv.  \Aside.~]  If  the  man  be  a  shadow  of  the 
master,  this  is  the  temple  of  dissipation  indeed ! 

\Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.  —  Another  Room  in  the  Same. 

CHARLES  SURFACE,  SIR  HARRY  BUMPER,  CARELESS, 
and  GENTLEMEN,  discovered  drinking. 

Chas.  Surf.  'Fore  heaven,  't  is  true  !  —  there  's  the 
great  degeneracy  of  the  age.  Many  of  our  acquain- 
tance have  taste,  spirit,  and  politeness ;  but,  plague 
on  't,  they  won't  drink. 

Care.  It  is  so,  indeed,  Charles  !  they  give  in  to 
all  the  substantial  luxuries  of  the  table,  and  abstain 
from  nothing  but  wine  and  wit.  Oh,  certainly  so- 
ciety suffers  by  it  intolerably !  for  now,  instead  of 
the  social  spirit  of  raillery  that  used  to  mantle  over 
a  glass  of  bright  Burgundy,  their  conversation  is 
become  just  like  the  Spa-water  they  drink,  which  has 


I  go  SHERIDAN'S   COMEDIES. 

all  the  pertness  and  flatulency  of  champagne,  with- 
out its  spirit  or  flavour. 

ist  Gent.  But  what  are  they  to  do  who  love  play 
better  than  wine  ? 

Care.  True !  there  's  Sir  Harry  diets  himself  for 
gaining,  and  is  now  under  a  hazard  regimen. 

Chas.  Surf.  Then  he'll  have  the  worst  of  it. 
What !  you  would  n't  train  a  horse  for  the  course 
by  keeping  him  from  corn  ?  For  my  part,  egad,  I 
am  never  so  successful  as  when  I  am  a  little 
merry :  let  me  throw  on  a  bottle  of  champagne, 
and  I  never  lose. 

All.    Hey,  what? 

Chas.  Surf.  At  least  I  never  feel  my  losses,  which 
is  exactly  the  same  thing. 

2d  Gent.    Ay,  that  I  believe. 

Chas.  Surf.  And  then,  what  man  can  pretend  to 
be  a  believer  in  love,  who  is  an  abjurer  of  wine  ? 
'T  is  the  test  by  which  the  lover  knows  his  own 
heart.  Fill  a  dozen  bumpers  to  a  dozen  beauties, 
and  she  that  floats  at  the  top  is  the  maid  that  has 
bewitched  you. 

Care.  Now  then,  Charles,  be  honest,  and  give  us 
your  real  favourite. 

Chas.  Surf.  Why,  I  have  withheld  her  only  in 
compassion  to  you.  If  I  toast  her,  you  must  give 
a  round  of  her  peers,  which  is  impossible  —  on  earth. 

Care.  Oh  !  then  we  '11  find  some  canonized  vestals 
or  heathen  goddesses  that  will  do,  I  warrant! 

Chas.  Surf.  Here  then,  bumpers,  you  rogues ! 
bumpers  !  Maria  !  Maria  !  - 

Sir  Har.    Maria  who  ? 

Chas.  Surf.  Oh,  damn  the  surname  !  —  't  is  too 
formal  to  be  registered  in  Love's  calendar —  Maria  1 

AIL    Maria! 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL.  191 

Chas.  Surf.  But  now,  Sir  Harry,  beware,  we  must 
have  beauty  superlative. 

Care.  Nay,  never  study,  Sir  Harry :  we  '11  stand 
to  the  toast,  though  your  mistress  should  want  an 
eye,  and  you  know  you  have  a  song  will  excuse  you. 

Sir  Har.  Egad,  so  I  have  !  and  I  '11  give  him  the 
song  instead  of  the  lady. 

SONG. 

Here  's  to  the  maiden  of  bashful  fifteen; 

Here's  to  the  widow  of  fifty; 
Here  's  to  the  flaunting  extravagant  quean, 

And  here  's  to  the  housewife  that 's  thrifty. 

Chorus.     Let  the  toast  pass,  — 

Drink  to  the  lass, 
I  '11  warrant  she  '11  prove  an  excuse  for  the  glass. 

Here  's  to  the  charmer  whose  dimples  we  prize; 

Now  to  the  maid  who  has  none,  sir : 
Here  's  to  the  girl  with  a  pair  of  blue  eyes, 

And  here  's  to  the  nymph  with  but  one,  sir. 

Chorus.     Let  the  toast  pass,  &c. 

Here 's  to  the  maid  with  a  bosom  of  snow : 
Now  to  her  that 's  as  brown  as  a  berry, 

Here  's  to  the  wife  with  a  face  full  of  woe, 
And  now  to  the  damsel  that 's  merry. 

Chorus.     Let  the  toast  pass,  &c. 

For  let  'em  be  clumsy,  or  let  'em  be  slim, 

Young  or  ancient,  I  care  not  a  feather; 

So  fill  a  pint  bumper  quite  up  to  the  brim, 

So  fill  up  your  glasses,  nay,  fill  to  the  brim, 

And  let  us  e'en  toast  them  together. 

Chorus.     Let  the  toast  pass,  &c. 
All.   Bravo  !  bravo ! 


1 92  SHERIDAN'S   COMEDIES. 

Enter  TRIP,  and  whispers  CHARLES  SURFACE. 

Chas.  Surf.  Gentlemen,  you  must  excuse  me  a 
little,  —  Careless,  take  the  chair,  will  you  ? 

Care.  Nay,  pr'ythee,  Charles,  what  now  ?  This 
is  one  of  your  peerless  beauties,  I  suppose,  has 
dropped  in  by  chance  ? 

Chas.  Surf.  No,  faith  !  To  tell  you  the  truth,  't  is 
a  Jew  and  a  broker,  who  are  come  by  appointment. 

Care.    Oh,  damn  it !  let 's  have  the  Jew  in. 

ist  Gent.    Ay,  and  the  broker  too,  by  all  means. 

2d  Gent.    Yes,  yes,  the  Jew  and  the  broker. 

Chas.  Surf.  Egad,  with  all  my  heart !  —  Trip,  bid 
the  gentlemen  walk  in.  —  [Exit  TRIP.]  Though 
there  's  one  of  them  a  stranger,  I  can  tell  you. 

Care.  Charles,  let  us  give  them  some  generous 
Burgundy,  and  perhaps  they  '11  grow  conscientious. 

Chas.  Surf.  Oh,  hang 'em,  no!  wine  does  but 
draw  forth  a  man's  natural  qualities  ;  and  to  make 
them  drink  would  only  be  to  whet  their  knavery. 

Reenter  TRIP,  with  SIR  OLIVER  SURFACE  and 
MOSES. 

Chas.  Surf.  So,  honest  Moses ;  walk  in,  pray,  Mr. 
Premium  —  that  's  the  gentleman's  name,  is  n't  it, 
Moses  ? 

Mos.    Yes,  sir. 

Chas.  Surf.    Set  chairs,  Trip.  —  Sit  down,  Mr.  Pre- 
mium. —  Glasses,  Trip.  —  [Gives  chairs  and  glasses, 
and  exit.}     Sit  down,  Moses.  —  Come,  Mr.  Premium, 
I  '11  give  you  a  sentiment ;  here  's  Success  to  usury  !  - 
Moses,  fill  the  gentleman  a  bumper. 

Mos.    Success  to  usury  !  [Drinks. 

Care.  Right,  Moses  —  usury  is  prudence  and  in- 
dustry, and  deserves  to  succeed. 


THE   SCHOOL   FOR   SCANDAL.  193 

Sir  Oliv.  Then  —  here  's  all  the  success  it  deserves  ! 

[Drinks. 

Care.  No,  no,  that  won't  do !  Mr.  Premium,  you 
have  demurred  at  the  toast,  and  must  drink  it  in  a 
pint  bumper. 

ist  Gent.    A  pint  bumper,  at  least. 

Mos.  Oh,  pray,  sir,  consider  —  Mr.  Premium  's  a 
gentleman. 

Care.    And  therefore  loves  good  wine. 

2d  Gent.  Give  Moses  a  quart  glass  —  this  is  mu- 
tiny, and  a  high  contempt  for  the  chair. 

Care.  Here,  now  for  't !  I  '11  see  justice  done,  to 
the  last  drop  of  my  bottle. 

Sir  Oliv.  Nay,  pray,  gentlemen  —  I  did  not  expect 
this  usage. 

Chas.  Surf.  No,  hang  it,  you  shan't ;  Mr.  Pre- 
mium 's  a  stranger. 

Sir  Oliv.  Odd  !  I  wish  I  was  well  out  of  their 
company.  [Aside. 

Care.  Plague  on  'em  !  if  they  won't  drink,  we  '11 
not  sit  down  with  them.  Come,  Harry,  the  dice  are 
in  the  next  room. —  Charles,  you  '11  join  us  when  you 
have  finished  your  business  with  the  gentlemen  ? 

Chas.  Surf.  I  will !  I  will !  —  \_Exeunt  SIR  HARRY 
BUMPER  and  GENTLEMEN  ;  CARELESS  following. ~\ 
Careless  ! 

Care.    [Returning.']    Well! 

Chas.  Surf.    Perhaps  I  may  want  you. 

Care.  Oh,  you  know  I  am  always  ready:  word, 
note,  or  bond,  \  is  all  the  same  to  me.  [Exit. 

Mos.  Sir,  this  is  Mr.  Premium,  a  gentleman  of 
the  strictest  honour  and  secrecy ;  and  always  per- 
forms what  he  undertakes.  Mr.  Premium,  this 


Chas.  Surf.    Pshaw  !  have  done.     Sir,  my  friend 


IQ4  SHERIDAN'S   COMEDIES. 

Moses  is  a  very  honest  fellow,  but  a  little  slow 
at  expression :  he  '11  be  an  hour  giving  us  our 
titles.  Mr.  Premium,  the  plain  state  of  the  matter 
is  this  :  I  am  an  extravagant  young  fellow  who  wants 
to  borrow  money ;  you  I  take  to  be  a  prudent 
old  fellow,  who  have  got  money  to  lend.  I  am 
blockhead  enough  to  give  fifty  per  cent  sooner 
than  not  have  it;  and  you,  I  presume,  are  rogue 
enough  to  take  a  hundred  if  you  can  get  it. 
Now,  sir,  you  see  we  are  acquainted  at  once, 
and  may  proceed  to  business  without  farther 
ceremony. 

Sir  Oliv.  Exceeding  frank,  upon  my  word.  I  see, 
sir,  you  are  not  a  man  of  many  compliments. 

Chas.  Surf.  Oh,  no,  sir  !  plain  dealing  in  business 
I  always  think  best. 

Sir  Oliv.  Sir,  I  like  you  the  better  for  it.  How- 
ever, you  are  mistaken  in  one  thing;  I  have  no 
money  to  lend,  but  I  believe  I  could  procure  some 
of  a  friend ;  but  then  he  's  an  unconscionable  dog. 
Is  n't  he,  Moses  ? 

Mos.    But  you  can't  help  that. 

Sir  Oliv.  And  must  sell  stock  to  accommodate 
you.  —  Must  n't  he,  Moses  ? 

Mos.  Yes,  indeed !  You  know  I  always  speak 
the  truth,  and  scorn  to  tell  a  lie ! 

Chas.  Surf.  Right.  People  that  speak  truth  gen- 
erally do.  But  these  are  trifles,  Mr.  Premium. 
What !  I  know  money  is  n't  to  be  bought  without 
paying  for  't ! 

Sir  Oliv.  Well,  but  what  security  could  you  give  ? 
You  have  no  land,  I  suppose  ? 

Chas.  Surf.  Not  a  mole-hill,  nor  a  twig,  but  what 's 
in  the  bough-pots  out  of  the  window ! 

Sir  Oliv.   Nor  any  stock,  I  presume  ? 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL.  195 

Chas.  Surf.  Nothing  but  live  stock  —  and  that 's 
only  a  few  pointers  and  ponies.  But  pray,  Mr.  Pre- 
mium, are  you  acquainted  at  all  with  any  of  my 
connections  ? 

Sir  Oliv.   Why,  to  say  truth,  I  am. 

Chas.  Surf.  Then  you  must  know  that  I  have  a 
devilish  rich  uncle  in  the  East  Indies,  Sir  Oliver 
Surface,  from  whom  I  have  the  greatest  expecta- 
tions ? 

Sir  Oliv.  That  you  have  a  wealthy  uncle,  I  have 
heard ;  but  how  your  expectations  will  turn  out  is 
more,  I  believe,  than  you  can  tell. 

Chas.  Surf .  Oh,  no! — there  can  be  no  doubt. 
They  tell  me  I  'm  a  prodigious  favourite,  and  that  he 
talks  of  leaving  me  everything. 

Sir  Oliv.  Indeed  !  this  is  the  first  I  've  heard 
of  it. 

Chas.  Surf.  Yes,  yes,  't  is  just  so.  —  Moses  knows 
't  is  true ;  don't  you,  Moses  ? 

Mos.   Oh,  yes  !  I  '11  swear  to  't. 

Sir  Oliv.  Egad,  they  '11  persuade  me  presently  I  'm 
at  Bengal.  [Aside. 

Chas.  Surf.  Now  I  propose,  Mr.  Premium,  if  it 's 
agreeable  to  you,  a  post-obit  on  Sir  Oliver's  life ; 
though  at  the  same  time  the  old  fellow  has  been  so 
liberal  to  me,  that  I  give  you  my  word,  I  should  be 
very  sorry  to  hear  that  anything  had  happened  to 
him. 

Sir  Oliv.  Not  more  than  I  should,  I  assure  you. 
But  the  bond  you  mention  happens  to  be  just  the 
worst  security  you  could  offer  me  —  for  I  might  live 
to  a  hundred  and  never  see  the  principal. 

Chas.  Surf.  Oh,  yes,  you  would !  the  moment  Sir 
Oliver  dies,  you  know,  you  would  come  on  me  for 
the  money. 


1 96  SHERIDAN'S   COMEDIES. 

Sir  Oliv.  Then  I  believe  I  should  be  the  most 
unwelcome  dun  you  ever  had  in  your  life. 

Chas.  Surf.  What !  I  suppose  you  're  afraid  that 
Sir  Oliver  is  too  good  a  life  ? 

Sir  Oliv.  No,  indeed  I  am  not ;  though  I  have 
heard  he  is  as  hale  and  healthy  as  any  man  of  his 
years  in  Christendom. 

Chas.  Surf.  There,  again,  now  you  are  misin- 
formed. No,  no,  the  climate  has  hurt  him  consider- 
ably, poor  uncle  Oliver.  Yes,  yes,  he  breaks  apace, 
I  'm  told  —  and  is  so  much  altered  lately  that  his 
nearest  relations  don't  know  him. 

Sir  Oliv.  No  !  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  I  so  much  altered 
lately  that  his  nearest  relations  don't  know  him  ! 
Ha!  ha!  ha!  egad  — ha!  ha!  ha! 

Chas.  Surf.  Ha  !  ha  !  —  you  're  glad  to  hear  that, 
little  Premium? 

Sir  Oliv.    No,  no,  I  'm  not. 

Chas.  Surf.  Yes,  yes,  you  are  —  ha!  ha!  ha!  — 
you  know  that  mends  your  chance. 

Sir  Oliv.  But  I  'm  told  Sir  Oliver  is  coming  over  ; 
nay,  some  say  he  is  actually  arrived. 

Chas.  Surf.  Pshaw  !  sure  I  must  know  better  than 
you  whether  he  's  come  or  not.  No,  no,  rely  on  't 
he  's  at  this  moment  at  Calcutta.  —  Is  n't  he,  Moses  ? 

Mas.    Oh,  yes,  certainly. 

Sir  Oliv.  Very  true,  as  you  say,  you  must  know 
better  than  I,  though  I  have  it  from  pretty  good 
authority.  —  Have  n't  I,  Moses  ? 

Mos.    Yes,  most  undoubtedly ! 

Sir  Oliv.  But,  sir,  as  I  understand,  you  want  a 
few  hundreds  immediately,  —  is  there  nothing  you 
could  dispose  of  ? 

Chas.  Surf.    How  do  you  mean  ? 

Sir  Oliv.   For   instance,  now,  I  have  heard   that 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL.      197 

your  father  left  behind  him  a  great  quantity  of  massy 
old  plate. 

Chas.  Surf.  O  Lud  !  that 's  gone  long  ago.  Moses 
can  tell  you  how  better  than  I  can. 

Sir  Oliv.  \_Aside.~\  Good  lack  !  all  the  family  race- 
cups  and  corporation-bowls  !  \AloudI\  Then  it  was 
also  supposed  that  his  library  was  one  of  the  most 
valuable  and  compact  — 

Chas.  Surf.  Yes,  yes,  so  it  was  —  vastly  too  much 
so  for  a  private  gentleman.  For  my  part,  I  was 
always  of  a  communicative  disposition,  so  I  thought 
it  a  shame  to  keep  so  much  knowledge  to  myself. 

Sir  Oliv.  \_AsideJ]  Mercy  upon  me  !  learning  that 
had  run  in  the  family  like  an  heir-loom  —  \AloudI\ 
Pray,  what  are  become  of  the  books  ? 

Chas.  Surf.  You  must  inquire  of  the  auctioneer, 
Master  Premium,  for  I  don't  believe  even  Moses  can 
direct  you. 

Mos.    I  know  nothing  of  books. 

Sir  Oliv.  So,  so,  nothing  of  the  family  property 
left,  I  suppose  ? 

Chas.  Surf.  Not  much,  indeed  ;  unless  you  have  a 
mind  to  the  family  pictures.  I  have  got  a  room  full 
of  ancestors  above  ;  and  if  you  have  a  taste  for  old 
paintings,  egad,  you  shall  have  'em  a  bargain  ! 

Sir  Oliv.  Hey !  what  the  devil !  sure,  you 
would  n't  sell  your  forefathers,  would  you  ? 

Chas.  Surf.  Every  man  of  them,  to  the  best 
bidder. 

Sir  Oliv.    What,  your  great-uncles  and  aunts  ? 

Chas.  Surf.  Ay,  and  my  great-grandfathers  and 
grandmothers  too. 

Sir  Oliv.  \Aside.~\  Now  I  give  him  up !  —  \_Aloud.~\ 
What  the  plague,  have  you  no  bowels  for  your  own 
kindred  ?  Odd's  life !  do  you  take  me  for  Shy  lock 


198  SHERIDAN'S   COMEDIES. 

in  the  play,  that  you  would  raise  money  of  me  on 
your  own  flesh  and  blood  ? 

C/ias.  Surf.  Nay,  my  little  broker,  don't  be  angry: 
what  need  you  care,  if  you  have  your  money's  worth  ? 

Sir  Oliv.  Well,  I  '11  be  the  purchaser :  I  think  I 
can  dispose  of  the  family  canvas.  —  \Aside.~\  Oh,  I  '11 
never  forgive  him  this  !  never  ! 

Reenter  CARELESS. 

Care.    Come,  Charles,  what  keeps  you? 

Chas.  Surf.  I  can't  come  yet.  I'  faith,  we  are 
going  to  have  a  sale  above-stairs ;  here  's  little  Pre- 
mium will  buy  all  my  ancestors ! 

Care.    Oh,  burn  your  ancestors  ! 

Chas.  Surf.  No,  he  may  do  that  afterwards,  if  he 
pleases.  Stay,  Careless,  we  want  you :  egad,  you 
shall  be  auctioneer  —  so  come  along  with  us. 

Care.  Oh,  have  with  you,  if  that 's  the  case.  I 
can  handle  a  hammer  as  well  as  a  dice-box  !  Going  ! 
going ! 

Sir  Oliv.   Oh,  the  profligates  !  [Aside. 

Chas.  Surf.  Come,  Moses,  you  shall  be  appraiser, 
if  we  want  one.  Gad's  life,  little  Premium,  you 
don't  seem  to  like  the  business? 

Sir  Oliv.  Oh,  yes,  I  do,  vastly !  Ha !  ha !  ha ! 
yes,  yes,  I  think  it  a  rare  joke  to  sell  one's  family  by 
auction  —  ha  !  ha  !  —  \Aside I\  Oh,  the  prodigal ! 

Chas.  Surf.  To  be  sure !  when  a  man  wants  money, 
where  the  plague  should  he  get  assistance,  if  he  can't 
make  free  with  his  own  relations  ? 

Sir  Oliv.   I  '11  never  forgive  him  ;  never !  never  ! 

[Exeunt. 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR   SCANDAL.  199 


ACT   IV. 

SCENE  I.  —  A  Picture  Room  in  CHARLES  SURFACE'S 
House. 

Enter    CHARLES    SURFACE,  SIR    OLIVER  SURFACE, 
MOSES,  and  CARELESS. 

Chas.  Surf.  Walk  in,  gentlemen,  pray  walk  in  ;  — 
here  they  are,  the  family  of  the  Surfaces,  up  to  the 
Conquest. 

Sir  Oliv.    And,  in  my  opinion,  a  goodly  collection. 

Chas.  Surf.  Ay,  ay,  these  are  done  in  the  true 
spirit  of  portrait-painting ;  no  volontiere  grace  or 
expression.  Not  like  the  works  of  your  modern 
Raphaels,  who  give  you  the  strongest  resemblance, 
yet  contrive  to  make  your  portrait  independent  of 
you ;  so  that  you  may  sink  the  original  and  not 
hurt  the  picture.  —  No,  no  ;  the  merit  of  these  is  the 
inveterate  likeness  —  all  stiff  and  awkward  as  the 
originals,  and  like  nothing  in  human  nature  besides. 

Sir  Oliv.  Ah !  we  shall  never  see  such  figures  of 
men  again. 

Chas.  Surf.  I  hope  not. — Well,  you  see,  Master 
Premium,  what  a  domestic  character  I  am ;  here  I 
sit  of  an  evening  surrounded  by  my  family.  —  But 
come,  get  to  your  pulpit,  Mr.  Auctioneer ;  here  's  an 
old  gouty  chair  of  my  grandfather's  will  answer  the 
purpose. 

Care.  Ay,  ay,  this  will  do.  —  But,  Charles,  I 
have  n't  a  hammer  ;  and  what 's  an  auctioneer  with- 
out his  hammer? 


2OO  SHERIDAN'S   COMEDIES. 

Chas.  Surf.  Egad,  that 's  true.  What  parchment 
have  we  here  ?  Oh,  our  genealogy  in  full.  [Taking 
pedigree  down."]  Here,  Careless,  you  shall  have  no 
common  bit  of  mahogany,  here  's  the  family  tree  for 
you,  you  rogue  !  This  shall  be  your  hammer,  and 
now  you  may  knock  down  my  ancestors  with  their 
own  pedigree. 

Sir  Oliv.  What  an  unnatural  rogue  !  —  an  ex  post 
facto  parricide  !  [Aside. 

Care.  Yes,  yes,  here  's  a  list  of  your  generation 
indeed  ; — faith,  Charles,  this  is  the  most  convenient 
thing  you  could  have  found  for  the  business,  for 
't  will  not  only  serve  as  a  hammer,  but  a  catalogue 
into  the  bargain.  Come,  begin  —  A-going,  a-going, 
a-going ! 

Chas.  Surf.  Bravo,  Careless  !  WTell,  here  's  my 
great-uncle,  Sir  Richard  Raveline,  a  marvellous  good 
general  in  his  day,  I  assure  you.  He  served  in  all 
the  Duke  of  Marlborough's  wars,  and  got  that  cut 
over  his  eye  at  the  battle  of  Malplaquet.  What  say 
you,  Mr.  Premium  ?  look  at  him  —  there  's  a  hero  ! 
not  cut  out  of  his  feathers,  as  your  modern  clipped 
captains  are,  but  enveloped  in  wig  and  regimentals, 
as  a  general  should  be.  —  What  do  you  bid  ? 

Sir  Oliv.    [Aside  to  Moses.]     Bid  him  speak. 

Mos.    Mr.  Premium  would  have  you  speak. 

Chas.  Surf.  Why,  then,  he  shall  have  him  for  ten 
pounds,  and  I  'm  sure  that 's  not  dear  for  a  staff- 
officer. 

Sir  Oliv.  [Aside]  Heaven  deliver  me !  his  fa- 
mous uncle  Richard  for  ten  pounds!  —  [Aloud.] 
Very  well,  sir,  I  take  him  at  that. 

Chas.  Surf.  Careless,  knock  down  my  uncle 
Richard.  —  Here,  now,  is  a  maiden  sister  of  his,  my 
great-aunt  Deborah,  done  by  Kneller,  thought  to  be 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR   SCANDAL.  2OI 

in  his  best  manner,  and  a  very  formidable  likeness. 
There  she  is,  you  see,  a  shepherdess  feeding  her 
flock.  You  shall  have  her  for  five  pounds  ten — the 
sheep  are  worth  the  money. 

Sir  Oliv.  [Aside. ~\  Ah!  poor  Deborah!  a  woman 
who  set  such  a  value  on  herself !  —  \AIoud7\  Five 
pounds  ten  —  she  's  mine. 

Chas.  Surf.    Knock   down   my  aunt   Deborah !  — 
Here,  now,  are  two  that  were  a  sort  of  cousins  of 
theirs.  —  You  see,  Moses,  these  pictures  were  done 
some  time  ago,  when  beaux  wore  wigs,  and  the  ladies 
their  own  hair. 

Sir  Oliv.  Yes,  truly,  head-dresses  appear  to  have 
been  a  little  lower  in  those  days. 

Chas.  Surf.    Well,  take  that  couple  for  the  same. 

Mos.    'T  is  a  good  bargain. 

Chas.  Surf.  Careless !  —  This,  now,  is  a  grand- 
father of  my  mother's,  a  learned  judge,  well  known 
on  the  western  circuit.  —  What  do  you  rate  him  at, 
Moses  ? 

Mos.    Four  guineas. 

Chas.  Surf.  Four  guineas  !  Gad's  life,  you  don't 
bid  me  the  price  of  his  wig.  —  Mr.  Premium,  you  have 
more  respect  for  the  woolsack ;  do  let  us  knock  his 
lordship  down  at  fifteen. 

Sir  Oliv.    By  all  means. 

Care.    Gone ! 

Chas.  Surf.  And  there  are  two  brothers  of  his, 
William  and  Walter  Blunt,  Esquires,  both  members 
of  parliament,  and  noted  speakers  ;  and,  what 's  very 
extraordinary,  I  believe,  this  is  the  first  time  they 
were  ever  bought  or  sold. 

Sir  Oliv.  That  is  very  extraordinary,  indeed  !  I  '11 
take  them  at  your  own  price,  for  the  honour  of  parlia- 
ment. 


2O2  SHERIDAN'S   COMEDIES. 

Care.  Well  said,  little  Premium  !  —  I  '11  knock  them 
down  at  forty. 

Chas.  Surf.  Here  's  a  jolly  fellow  —  I  don't  know 
what  relation,  but  he  was  mayor  of  Manchester :  take 
him  at  eight  pounds. 

Sir  Oliv.    No,  no  ;  six  will  do  for  the  mayor. 

Chas.  Surf.  Come,  make  it  guineas,  and  I  '11  throw 
you  the  two  aldermen  there  into  the  bargain. 

Sir  Oliv.    They  're  mine. 

Chas.  Surf.  Careless,  knock  down  the  mayor  and 
aldermen.  —  But,  plague  on't!  we  shall  be  all  day 
retailing  in  this  manner :  do  let  us  deal  wholesale ; 
what  say  you,  little  Premium  ?  Give  me  three  hun- 
dred pounds  for  the  rest  of  the  family  in  the  lump. 

Care.   Ay,  ay,  that  will  be  the  best  way. 

Sir  Oliv.  Well,  well,  anything  to  accommodate 
you ;  they  are  mine.  But  there  is  one  portrait  which 
you  have  always  passed  over. 

Care.  What,  that  ill-looking  little  fellow  over  the 
settee  ? 

Sir  Oliv.  Yes,  sir,  I  mean  that ;  though  I  don't 
think  him  so  ill-looking  a  little  fellow,  by  any  means. 

Chas.  Surf.  What,  that  ?  —  Oh  ;  that 's  my  uncle 
Oliver !  't  was  done  before  he  went  to  India. 

Care.  Your  uncle  Oliver  ! — Gad,  then  you  '11  never 
be  friends,  Charles.  That,  now,  to  me,  is  as  stern  a 
looking  rogue  as  ever  I  saw  ;  an  unforgiving  eye,  and 
a  damned  disinheriting  countenance!  an  inveterate 
knave,  depend  on  't.  Don't  you  think  so,  little 
Premium  ? 

Sir  Oliv.  Upon  my  soul,  sir,  I  do  not ;  I  think  it 
is  as  honest  a  looking  face  as  any  in  the  room,  dead 
or  alive.  —  But  I  suppose  uncle  Oliver  goes  with  the 
rest  of  the  lumber  ? 

Chas.  Surf.    No,  hang  it !     I  '11  not  part  with  poor 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL.      203 

Noll.  The  old  fellow  has  been  very  good  to  me,  and, 
egad,  I  '11  keep  his  picture  while  I  've  a  room  to  put 
it  in. 

Sir  Oliv.  [Aside.']  The  rogue  's  my  nephew  after 
all !  —  \_Aloud.~]  But,  sir,  I  have  somehow  taken  a 
fancy  to  that  picture. 

C/ias.  Surf.  I  'm  sorry  for  't,  for  you  certainly  will 
not  have  it.  Oons,  have  n't  you  got  enough  of  them  ? 

Sir  Oliv.  \AsideJ\  I  forgive  him  everything !  — 
\AloudI\  But,  sir,  when  I  take  a  whim  in  my  head, 
I  don't  value  money.  I  '11  give  you  as  much  for  that 
as  for  all  the  rest. 

Ckas.  Surf.  Don't  tease  me,  master  broker  ;  I  tell 
you  I  '11  not  part  with  it,  and  there  's  an  end  of  it. 

Sir  Oliv.    [Aside^\  How  like  his  father  the  dog  is  ! 

—  \Aloud^\     Well,  well,  I  have  done.  —  \_Aside.}     I 
did  not  perceive  it  before,  but  I  think  I  never  saw 
such  a  striking  resemblance.  —  \Aloud.1     Here  is  a 
draft  for  your  sum. 

Chas.  Surf.   Why,  't  is  for  eight  hundred  pounds  ! 

Sir  Oliv.    You  will  not  let  Sir  Oliver  go  ? 

Ckas.  Surf.   Zounds  !  no  !  I  tell  you  once  more. 

Sir  Oliv.  Then  never  mind  the  difference,  we  '11 
balance  that  another  time.  —  But  give  me  your  hand 
on  the  bargain  ;  you  are  an  honest  fellow,  Charles  — 
I  beg  pardon,  sir,  for  being  so  free.  —  Come,  Moses. 

Chas.  Surf.    Egad,  this  is  a  whimsical  old  fellow ! 

—  But  hark'ee,  Premium,  you  '11  prepare  lodgings  for 
these  gentlemen. 

Sir  Oliv.  Yes,  yes,  I  '11  send  for  them  in  a  day  or 
two. 

Chas.  Surf.  But  hold  ;  do  now  send  a  genteel  con- 
veyance for  them,  for,  I  assure  you,  they  were  most 
of  them  used  to  ride  in  their  own  carriages. 

Sir  Oliv.    I  will,  I  will,  —  for  all  but  Oliver. 


204  SHERIDAN'S   COMEDIES. 

Chas.  Surf.    Ay,  all  but  the  little  nabob. 

Sir  Oliv.    You  're  fixed  on  that  ? 

C/ias.  Surf.    Peremptorily. 

Sir  Oliv.  \Asidet\  A  dear  extravagant  rogue  !  — 
[Aloud.]  Good  day  !  —  Come,  Moses.  —  [Aside.'] 
Let  me  hear  now  who  dares  call  him  profligate ! 

[Exit  -with  MOSES. 

Care.  Why,  this  is  the  oddest  genius  of  the  sort  I 
ever  met  with  ! 

Chas.  Surf.  Egad,  he  's  the  prince  of  brokers,  I 
think.  I  wonder  how  the  devil  Moses  got  acquainted 
with  so  honest  a  fellow.  —  Ha  !  here  's  Rowley.  —  Do, 
Careless,  say  I  '11  join  the  company  in  a  few  moments. 

Care.  I  will  — but  don't  let  that  old  blockhead 
persuade  you  to  squander  any  of  that  money  on  old 
musty  debts,  or  any  such  nonsense ;  for  tradesmen, 
Charles,  are  the  most  exorbitant  fellows. 

Chas.  Surf.  Very  true,  and  paying  them  is  only 
encouraging  them. 

Care.    Nothing  else. 

Chas.  Surf.  Ay,  ay,  never  fear.  —  [Exit  CARELESS.] 
So  !  this  was  an  odd  old  fellow,  indeed.  —  Let  me  see, 
two-thirds  of  this  is  mine  by  right,  five  hundred  and 
thirty  odd  pounds.  'Fore  Heaven  !  I  find  one's  ances- 
tors are  more  valuable  relations  than  I  took  them  for  ! 
—  Ladies  and  gentlemen,  your  most  obedient  and  very 
grateful  servant. — \Bows  ceremoniously  to  the  pictures. 

Enter  ROWLEY. 

Ha !  old  Rowley !  egad,  you  are  just  come  in  time 
to  take  leave  of  your  old  acquaintance. 

Row.  Yes,  I  heard  they  were  a-going.  But  I 
wonder  you  can  have  such  spirits  under  so  many 
distresses. 

Chas.  Surf.    Why,  there  's  the  point !  my.  distresses 


THE   SCHOOL  FOR   SCANDAL.  2O$ 

are  so  many,  that  I  can't  afford  to  part  with  my 
spirits ;  but  I  shall  be  rich  and  splenetic,  all  in 
good  time.  However,  I  suppose  you  are  surprised 
that  I  am  not  more  sorrowful  at  parting  with  so  many 
near  relations  :  to  be  sure,  't  is  very  affecting,  but  you 
see  they  never  move  a  muscle,  so  why  should  I  ? 

Row.    There  's  no  making  you  serious  a  moment. 

Chas.  Surf.  Yes,  faith,  I  am  so  now.  Here,  my 
honest  Rowley,  here,  get  me  this  changed  directly, 
and  take  a  hundred  pounds  of  it  immediately  to  old 
Stanley. 

Row.   A  hundred  pounds.     Consider  only 

Chas.  Surf.  Gad's  life,  don't  .talk  about  it!  poor 
Stanley's  wants  are  pressing,  and,  if  you  don't  make 
haste,  we  shall  have  some  one  call  that  has  a  better 
right  to  the  money. 

Row.  Ah  !  there  's  the  point !  I  never  will  cease 
dunning  you  with  the  old  proverb  — 

Chas.  Surf.  Be  just  before  you 're  generous.  —  Why, 
so  I  would  if  I  could ;  but  Justice  is  an  old,  hobbling 
beldame,  and  I  can't  get  her  to  keep  pace  with  Gen- 
erosity, for  the  soul  of  me. 

Row.  Yet,  Charles,  believe  me,  one  hour's  reflec- 
tion   

Chas.  Surf.  Ay,  ay,  it  's  very  true  ;  but,  hark'ee, 
Rowley,  while  I  have,  by  Heaven  I  '11  give  :  so,  damn 
your  economy  !  and  now  for  hazard.  \_Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.  —  Another  Room  in  the  Same. 
Enter  SIR  OLIVER  SURFACE  and  MOSES. 

Mos.  Well,  sir,  I  think,  as  Sir  Peter  said,  you  have 
seen  Mr.  Charles  in  high  glory ;  't  is  great  pity  he  's 
so  extravagant. 


206  SHERIDAN'S   COMEDIES. 

Sir  Oliv.  True,  but  he  would  not  sell  my 
picture. 

Mas.   And  loves  wine  and  women  so  much. 

Sir  Oliv.    But  he  would  not  sell  my  picture. 

Mos.    And  game  so  deep. 

Sir  Oliv.  But  he  would  not  sell  my  picture.  Oh, 
here  's  Rowley. 

Enter  ROWLEY. 

Row.  So,  Sir  Oliver,  I  find  you  have  made  a  pur- 
chase   

Sir  Oliv.  Yes,  yes,  our  young  rake  has  parted 
with  his  ancestors  like  old  tapestry. 

Row.  And  here  has  he  commissioned  me  to  re- 
deliver  you  part  of  the  purchase-money  —  I  mean, 
though,  in  your  necessitous  character  of  old  Stanley. 

Mos.  Ah !  there  is  the  pity  of  all !  he  is  so  damned 
charitable. 

Row.  And  I  left  a  hosier  and  two  tailors  in  the 
hall,  who,  I  'm  sure,  won't  be  paid,  and  this  hundred 
would  satisfy  them. 

Sir  Oliv.  Well,  well,  I  '11  pay  his  debts  and  his 
benevolence  too.  But  now  I  am  no  more  a  broker, 
and  you  shall  introduce  me  to  the  elder  brother  as 
old  Stanley. 

Row.  Not  yet  awhile ;  Sir  Peter,  I  know,  means  to 
call  there  about  this  time. 

Enter  TRIP. 

Trip.  Oh,  gentlemen,  I  beg  pardon  for  not  show- 
ing you  out :  this  way  —  Moses,  a  word. 

{Exit  with  MOSES. 

Sir  Oliv.  There  's  a  fellow  for  you  !  Would  you 
believe  it,  that  puppy  intercepted  the  Jew  on  our 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR   SCANDAL.  2O/ 

coming,  and  wanted  to  raise  money  before  he  got  to 
his  master  1 

Row.   Indeed  ! 

Sir  Oliv.    Yes,  they  are  now  planning  an  annuity 
business.     Ah,  Master  Rowley,  in  my  days  servants 
were  content  with  me  follies  of  their  masters,  when   I 
they  were  worn   a  little  threadbare ;  but  now  they   I 
have  their  vices,  like  their  birthday  clothes,  with  the    I 
gloss  on.  \_Exeunt:" 


SCENE  III.  —  A   Library  in   JOSEPH    SURFACE'S 
House. 

Enter  JOSEPH  SURFACE  and  SERVANT. 

Jos.  Surf.    No  letter  from  Lady  Teazle  ? 

Serv.    No,  sir. 

Jos.  Surf.  \_Aside.~]  I  am  surprised  she  has  not 
sent,  if  she  is  prevented  from  coming.  Sir  Peter 
certainly  does  not  suspect  me.  Yet  I  wish  I  may 
not  lose  the  heiress  through  the  scrape  I  have  drawn 
myself  into  with  the  wife:  however,  Charles's  impru- 
dence and  bad  character  are  great  points  in  my 
favour.  [Knocking  heard  without. 

Serv.    Sir,  I  believe  that  must  be  Lady  Teazle. 

Jos.  Surf.  Hold  !  See  whether  it  is  or  not,  before 
you  go  to  the  door  :  I  have  a  particular  message  for 
you  if  it  should  be  my  brother. 

Serv.  'T  is  her  ladyship,  sir  ;  she  always  leaves 
her  chair  at  the  milliner's  in  the  next  street. 

Jos.  Surf.  Stay,  stay  ;  draw  that  screen  before  the 
window  —  that  will  do  ;  —  my  opposite  neighbour  is  a 
maiden  lady  of  so  curious  a  temper.  —  [SERVANT 
draws  the  screen,  and  exit.~\  I  have  a  difficult  hand 


208  SHERIDAN'S   COMEDIES. 

to  play  in  this  affair.  Lady  Teazle  has  lately  sus- 
pected my  views  on  Maria ;  but  she  must  by  no 
means  be  let  into  that  secret, — at  least  till  I  have 
her  more  in  my  power. 

Enter  LADY  TEAZLE. 

Lady  Teaz.  What,  sentiment  in  soliloquy  now? 
Have  you  been  very  impatient?  O  Lud  !  don't  pre- 
tend to  look  grave.  I  vow  I  could  n't  come  before. 

Jos.  Surf.    O  madam,  punctuality  is  a  species  of 
constancy,  very  unfashionable  in  a  lady  of  quality. 
[Places  chairs  and  sits  after  LADY  TEAZLE  is  seated '.] 

Lady  Teaz.  Upon  my  word,  you  ought  to  pity  me. 
Do  you  know  Sir  Peter  has  grown  so  ill-natured  to 
me  of  late,  and  so  jealous  of  Charles  too  —  that 's  the 
best  of  the  story,  is  n't  it  ? 

Jos.  Surf.  I  am  glad  my  scandalous  friends  keep 
that  up.  [Aside. 

Lady  Teaz.  I  am  sure  I  wish  he  would  let  Maria 
marry  him,  and  then  perhaps  he  would  be  convinced  ; 
don't  you,  Mr.  Surface  ? 

Jos.  Surf.  [Aside.']  Indeed  I  do  not.  —  [Aloud. ~\ 
Oh,  certainly  I  do  !  for  then  my  dear  Lady  Teazle 
would  also  be  convinced  how  wrong  her  suspicions 
were  of  my  having  any  design  on  the  silly  girl. 

Lady  Teaz.  Well,  well,  I  'in  inclined  to  believe 
you.  But  is  n't  it  provoking,  to  have  the  most  ill- 
natured  things  said  of  one?  And  there  's  my  friend 
Lady  Sneerwell  has  circulated  I  don't  know  how 
many  scandalous  tales  of  me,  and  all  without  any 
foundation  too  ;  —  that 's  what  vexes  me. 

Jos.  Surf.  Ay,  madam,  to  be  sure,  that  is  the  pro- 
voking circumstance  —  without  foundation  ;  yes,  yes, 
there  's  the  mortification,  indeed ;  for,  when  a  scan- 
dalous story  is  believed  against  one,  there  certainly 


THE  SCHOOL   FOR   SCANDAL.  2OQ 

is  no  comfort  like  the  consciousness  of  having  de- 
served it. 

Lady  Teaz.  No,  to  be  sure,  then  I  'd  forgive  their 
malice  ;  but  to  attack  me,  who  am  really  so  innocent, 
and  who  never  say  an  ill-natured  thing  of  anybody  — 
that  is,  of  any  friend ;  and  then  Sir  Peter,  too,  to 
have  him  so  peevish,  and  so  suspicious,  when  I  know 
the  integrity  of  my  own  heart  —  indeed  'tis  mon- 
strous ! 

Jos.  Surf.  But,  my  dear  Lady  Teazle,  't  is  your 
own  fault  if  you  suffer  it.  When  a  husband  enter- 
tains a  groundless  suspicion  of  his  wife,  and  with- 
draws his  confidence  from  her,  the  original  compact 
is  broken,  and  she  owes  it  to  the  honour  of  her  sex  to 
endeavour  to  outwit  him. 

Lady  Teaz.  Indeed  !  —  So  that,  if  he  suspects  me 
without  cause,  it  follows,  that  the  best  way  of  curing 
his  jealousy  is  to  give  him  reason  for  't  ? 

Jos.  Surf.  Undoubtedly  —  for  your  husband  should 
never  be  deceived  in  you  :  and  in  that  case  it  becomes 
you  to  be  frail  in  compliment  to  his  discernment. 

Lady  Teaz.  To  be  sure,  what  you  say  is  very 
reasonable,  and  when  the  consciousness  of  my  inno- 
cence   

Jos.  Surf.  Ah,  my  dear  madam,  there  is  the  great .. 
mistake  !  't  is  this  very  conscious  innocence  that  is 
of  the  greatest  prejudice  to  you.  What  is  it  makes 
you  negligent  of  forms,  and  careless  of  the  world's 
opinion  ?  why,  the  consciousness  of  your  own  inno- 
cence. What  makes  you  thoughtless  in  your  conduct 
and  apt  to  run  into  a  thousand  little  imprudences  ? 
why,  the  consciousness  of  your  own  innocence. 
What  makes  you  impatient  of  Sir  Peter's  temper, 
and  outrageous  at  his  suspicions  ?  why,  the  conscious- 
ness of  your  innocence. 


210  SHERIDAN* S   COMEDIES. 

Lady  Teaz.   'T  is  very  true  ! 

Jos.  Surf.  Now,  my  dear  Lady  Teazle,  if  you  would 
but  once  make  a  triftmgfaux  pas,  you  can't  conceive 
how  cautious  you  would  grow,  and  how  ready  to 
humour  and  agree  with  your  husband. 

Lady  Teaz.    Do  you  think  so  ? 

Jos.  Surf.  Oh,  I  am  sure  on 't ;  and  then  you 
would  find  all  scandal  would  cease  at  once,  for  —  in 
short,  your  character  at  present  is  like  a  person  in  a 
plethora,  absolutely  dying  from  too  much  health. 

Lady  Teaz.  So,  so ;  then  I  perceive  your  prescrip- 
tion is,  that  I  must  sin  in  my  own  defence,  and  part 
with  my  virtue  to  preserve  my  reputation  ? 

Jos.  Surf.    Exactly  so,  upon  my  credit,  ma'am. 

Lady  Teaz.  Well,  certainly  this  is  the  oddest  doc- 
trine, and  the  newest  receipt  for  avoiding  calumny ! 

Jos.  Surf.  An  infallible  one,  believe  me.  Pru- 
dence, like  experience,  must  be  paid  for. 

Lady  Teaz.  Why,  if  my  understanding  were  once 
convinced 

Jos.  Surf.  Oh,  certainly,  madam,  your  understand- 
ing should  be  convinced.  Yes,  yes,  —  Heaven  forbid 
I  should  persuade  you  to  do  anything  you  thought 
wrong.  No,  no,  I  have  too  much  honour  to  desire 
it. 

Lady  Teaz.  Don't  you  think  we  may  as  well  leave 
honour  out  of  the  argument  ?  [Rises. 

Jos.  Surf.  Ah,  the  ill  effects  of  your  country  edu- 
cation, I  see,  still  remain  with  you. 

Lady  Teaz.  I  doubt  they  do  indeed ;  and  I  will 
fairly  own  to  you,  that  if  I  could  be  persuaded  to  do 
wrong,  it  would  be  by  Sir  Peter's  ill  usage  sooner 
than  your  honourable  logic,  after  all. 

Jos.  Surf.  Then,  by  this  hand,  which  he  is  un- 
worthy of \Taking  her  hand. 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL.  211 


Reenter  SERVANT. 

'Sdeath,  you  blockhead  —  what  do  you  want  ? 

Serv.  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,  but  I  thought  you 
would  not  choose  Sir  Peter  to  come  up  without 
announcing  him.  • 

Jos.  Surf.    Sir  Peter  !  —  Oons  —  the  devil ! 

Lady  Teaz.  Sir  Peter  !  O  Lud  !  I  'm  ruined  !  I  'm 
ruined ! 

Serv.    Sir,  't  was  n't  I  let  him  in. 

Lady  Teaz.  Oh !  I  'm  quite  undone  !  What  will 
become  of  me  ?  Now,  Mr.  Logic  —  Oh  !  mercy,  sir, 
he  's  on  the  stairs  —  I  '11  get  behind  here  —  and  if 
ever  I  'm  so  imprudent  again  — 

[  Goes  behind  the  screen. 

Jos.  Surf.   Give  me  that  book. 

\_Sits  down.     SERVANT  pretends  to  adjust  his  chair. 

Enter  SIR  PETER  TEAZLE. 

Sir  Peter.  Ay,  ever  improving  himself  —  Mr.  Sur- 
face, Mr.  Surface 

[Pats  JOSEPH  on  the  shoulder. 

Jos.  Surf.  Oh,  my  dear  Sir  Peter,  I  beg  your  par- 
don —  [  Gaping,  throws  away  the  book.']  I  have  been 
dozing  over  a  stupid  book.  Well,  I  am  much  obliged 
to  you  for  this  call.  You  have  n't  been  here,  I  be- 
lieve, since  I  fitted  up  this*  room.  Books,  you  know, 
are  the  only  things  in  which  I  am  a  coxcomb. 

Sir  Peter.  'T  is  very  neat  indeed.  —  Well,  well, 
that 's  proper  ;  and  you  can  make  even  your  screen  a 
source  of  knowledge  —  hung,  I  perceive,  with  maps. 

Jos.  Surf.    Oh,  yes,  I  find  great  use  in  that  screen. 

Sir  Peter.  I  dare  say  you  must,  certainly,  when 
you  want  to  find  anything  in  a  hurry. 


212  SHERIDAN'S   COMEDIES. 

Jos.  Surf.  Ay,  or  to  hide  anything  in  a  hurry 
either.  [Aside. 

Sir  Peter.  Well,  I  have  a  little  private  busi- 
ness   

Jos.  Surf.    You  need  not  stay.  [To  SERVANT. 

Serv.    No,  sir.  •  [Exit. 

Jos.  Surf.    Here  's  a  chair,  Sir  Peter  —  I  beg  — 

Sir  Peter.  Well,  now  we  are  alone,  there  is  a  sub- 
ject, my  dear  friend,  on  which  I  wish  to  unburden 
my  mind  to  you  —  a  point  of  the  greatest  moment  to 
my  peace  ;  in  short,  my  good  friend,  Lady  Teazle's 
conduct  of  late  has  made  me  very  unhappy. 

Jos.  Surf.    Indeed  !  I  am  very  sorry  to  hear  it. 

Sir  Peter.  Yes,  't  is  but  too  plain  she  has  not  the 
least  regard  for  me  ;  but,  what 's  worse,  I  have  pretty 
good  authority  to  suppose  she  has  formed  an  attach- 
ment to  another. 

Jos.  Surf.    Indeed  !  you  astonish  me  ! 

Sir  Peter.  Yes !  and,  between  ourselves,  I  think 
I  Ve  discovered  the  person. 

Jos.  Surf.    How!  you  alarm  me  exceedingly. 

Sir  Peter.  Ay,  my  dear  friend,  I  knew  you  would 
sympathize  with  me  ! 

Jos.  Surf.  Yes,  believe  me,  Sir  Peter,  such  a  dis- 
covery would  hurt  me  just  as  much  as  it  would 
you. 

Sir  Peter.  I  am  convinced  of  it.  —  Ah  !  it  is  a  hap- 
piness to  have  a  friend  whom  we  can  trust  even  with 
one's  family  secrets.  But  have  you  no  guess  who  I 
mean  ? 

Jos.  Surf.  I  have  n't  the  most  distant  idea.  It 
can't  be  Sir  Benjamin  Backbite  ! 

Sir  Peter.    Oh,  no  !     What  say  you  to  Charles  ? 

Jos.  Surf.    My  brother  !  impossible  ! 

Sir  Peter.    Oh,  my  dear  friend,  the  goodness  of 


THE  SCHOOL   FOR   SCANDAL.  21 3 

your  own  heart  misleads  you.  You  judge  of  others 
by  yourself. 

Jos.  Surf.  Certainly,  Sir  Peter,  the  heart  that  is 
conscious  of  its  own  integrity  is  ever  slow  to  credit 
another's  treachery. 

Sir  Peter.  True  ;  but  your  brother  has  no  senti- 
ment —  you  never  hear  him  talk  so. 

Jos.  Surf.  Yet  I  can't  but  think  Lady  Teazle  her- 
self has  too  much  principle. 

Sir  Peter.  Ay ;  but  what  is  principle  against  the 
flattery  of  a  handsome,  lively  young  fellow  ? 

Jos.  Surf.    That 's  very  true. 

Sir  Peter.  And  then,  you  know,  the  difference  of 
our  ages  makes  it  very  improbable  that  she  should 
have  any  great  affection  for  me  ;  and  if  she  were  to 
be  frail,  and  I  were  to  make  it  public,  why  the  town 
would  only  laugh  at  me,  the  foolish  old  bachelor,  who 
had  married  a  girl. 

Jos.  Surf.  That's  true,  to  be  sure  —  they  would 
laugh. 

Sir  Peter.  Laugh !  ay,  and  make  ballads,  and 
paragraphs,  and  the  devil  knows  what  of  me. 

Jos.  Surf.    No,  —  you  must  never  make  it  public. 

Sir  Peter.  But  then  again  —  that  the  nephew  of 
my  old  friend,  Sir  Oliver,  should  be  the  person  to 
attempt  such  a  wrong,  hurts  me  more  nearly. 

Jos.  Surf.  Ay,  there  's  the  point.  When  ingrati- 
tude barbs  the  dart  of  injury,  the  wound  has  double 
danger  in  it. 

Sir  Peter.  Ay  —  I,  that  was,  in  a  manner,  left  his 
guardian :  in  whose  house  he  had  been  so  often  en- 
tertained ;  who  never  in  my  life  denied  him  —  my 
advice  ! 

Jos.  Surf.  Oh,  't  is  not  to  be  credited !  There 
may  be  a  man  capable  of  such  baseness,  to  be  sure  ; 


214  SHERIDAN'S   COMEDIES. 

but,  for  my  part,  till  you  can  give  me  positive  proofs, 
I  cannot  but  doubt  it.  However,  if  it  should  be 
proved  on  him,  he  is  no  longer  a  brother  of  mine  — 
I  disclaim  kindred  with  him :  for  the  man  who  can 
break  the  laws  of  hospitality,  and  tempt  the  wife  of  his 
friend,  deserves  to  be  branded  as  the  pest  of  society. 

Sir  Peter.  What  a  difference  there  is  between  you  ! 
What  noble  sentiments ! 

Jos.  Surf.  Yet  I  cannot  suspect  Lady  Teazle's 
honour. 

Sir  Peter.  I  am  sure  I  wish  to  think  well  of  her, 
and  to  remove  all  ground  of  quarrel  between  us. 
She  has  lately  reproached  me  more  than  once  with 
having  made  no  settlement  on  her ;  and,  in  our 
last  quarrel,  she  almost  hinted  that  she  should  not 
break  her  heart  if  I  was  dead.  Now,  as  we  seem  to 
differ  in  our  ideas  of  expense,  I  have  resolved  she 
shall  have  her  own  way,  and  be  her  own  mistress  in 
that  respect  for  the  future  ;  and,  if  I  were  to  die, 
she  will  find  I  have  not  been  inattentive  to  her  in- 
terest while  living.  Here,  my  friend,  are  the  drafts 
of  two  deeds,  which  I  wish  to  have  your  opinion  on.  — 
By  one,  she  will  enjoy  eight  hundred  a  year  indepen- 
dent while  I  live  ;  and  by  the  other,  the  bulk  of  my 
fortune  at  my  death. 

Jos.  Surf.  This  conduct,  Sir  Peter,  is  indeed  truly 
generous.  —  \AsideI\  I  wish  it  may  not  corrupt  my 
pupil. 

Sir  Peter.  Yes,  I  am  determined  she  shall  have 
no  cause  to  complain,  though  I  would  not  have  her 
acquainted  with  the  latter  instance  of  my  affection 
yet  awhile. 

Jos.  Surf.    Nor  I,  if  I  could  help  it.  [Aside. 

Sir  Peter.  And  now,  my  dear  friend,  if  you  please, 
we  will  talk  over  the  situation  of  your  hopes  with 
Maria. 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL.      21$ 

Jos.  Surf.  [Softly.]  Oh,  no,  Sir  Peter;  another 
time,  if  you  please. 

Sir  Peter.  I  am  sensibly  chagrined  at  the  little 
progress  you  seem  to  make  in  her  affections. 

Jos.  Surf.  [Softly.]  I  beg  you  will  not  mention  it. 
What  are  my  disappointments  when  your  happiness 
is  in  debate !  —  [Aside]  'Sdeath,  I  shall  be  ruined 
every  way  ! 

Sir  Peter.  And  though  you  are  so  averse  to 
my  acquainting  Lady  Teazle  with  your  passion  for 
Maria,  I  'm  sure  she  's  not  your  enemy  in  the  affair. 

Jos.  Surf.  Pray,  Sir  Peter,  now  oblige  me.  I  am 
really  too  much  affected  by  the  subject  we  have  been 
speaking  of,  to  bestow  a  thought  on  my  own  con- 
cerns. The  man  who  is  entrusted  with  his  friend's 
distresses  can  never 

Re  enter  SERVANT. 
Well,  sir  ? 

Serv.  Your  brother,  sir,  is  speaking  to  a  gentleman 
in  the  street,  and  says  he  knows  you  are  within. 

Jos.  Surf.  'Sdeath,  blockhead,  I  'm  not  within — 
I  'm  out  for  the  day. 

Sir  Peter.  Stay  —  hold  —  a  thought  has  struck 
me :  —  you  shall  be  at  home. 

Jos.  Surf.  Well,  well,  let  him  up.  —  [Exit  SER- 
VANT.] He  '11  interrupt  Sir  Peter,  however.  [Aside. 

Sir  Peter.  Now,  my  good  friend,  oblige  me,  I 
entreat  you.  —  Before  Charles  comes,  let  me  conceal 
myself  somewhere,  —  then  do  you  tax  him  on  the 
point  we  have  been  talking,  and  his  answer  may 
satisfy  me  at  once. 

Jos.  Surf.  Oh,  fie,  Sir  Peter !  would  you  have  me 
join  in  so  mean  a  trick?  —  to  trepan  my  brother 
too? 


2l6  SHERIDAN'S   COMEDIES. 

Sir  Peter.  Nay,  you  tell  me  you  are  sure  he  is 
innocent ;  if  so,  you  do  him  the  greatest  service  by 
giving  him  an  opportunity  to  clear  himself,  and  you 
will  set  my  heart  at  rest.  Come,  you  shall  not  refuse 
me:  [Going  up,']  here  behind  the  screen  will  be  — 
Hey !  what  the  devil !  there  seems  to  be  one  listener 
here  already  —  I  '11  swear  I  saw  a  petticoat ! 

Jos.  Surf.  Ha !  ha !  ha !  Well,  this  is  ridiculous 
enough.  I  '11  tell  you,  Sir  Peter,  though  I  hold  a 
man  of  intrigue  to  be  a  most  despicable  character, 
yet,  you  know7,  it  does  not  follow  that  one  is  to  be 
an  absolute  Joseph  either !  Hark'ee,  't  is  a  little 
French  milliner,  —  a  silly  rogue  that  plagues  me  ; 
—  and  having  some  character  to  lose,  on  your  com- 
ing, sir,  she  ran  behind  the  screen. 

Sir  Peter.  Ah,  Joseph!  Joseph  !  Did  I  ever  think 
that  you  —  But,  egad,  she  has  overheard  all  I  have 
been  saying  of  my  wife. 

Jos.  Surf.  Oh,  't  will  never  go  any  farther,  you  may 
depend  upon  it ! 

Sir  Peter.  No!  then,  faith,  let  her  hear  it  out. — 
Here  's  a  closet  will  do  as  well. 

Jos.  Surf.    Well,  go  in  there. 

Sir  Peter.    Sly  rogue  !  sly  rogue ! 

[Goes  into  the  closet. 

Jos.  Surf.  A  narrow  escape,  indeed. !  and  a  curi- 
ous situation  I  'm  in,  to  part  man  and  wife  in  this 
manner. 

Lady  Teaz.    [Peeping^     Could  n't  I  steal  off  ? 

Jos.  Surf.    Keep  close,  my  angel ! 

Sir  Peter.    [Peeping.]     Joseph,  tax  him  home. 

Jos.  Surf.    Back,  my  dear  friend  ! 

Lady  Teaz.  [Peeping.']  Couldn't  you  lock  Sir 
Peter  in  ? 

Jos.  Surf.    Be  still,  my  life  ! 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR   SCANDAL.  21? 

Sir  Peter.  [Peeping.}  vou  're  sure*  the  little  milli- 
ner won't  blab  ? 

Jos.  Surf.  In,  in,  my  ckar  Sir  Peter  !  —  'Fore  Gad, 
I  wish  I  had  a  key  to  the  door. 

Enter  CHARLES  SURFACE. 

Chas.  Surf.    Holla !  brother,   what   has   been    the 
matter  ?     Your  fellow  would  not  let  me  up  at  first. 
What !    have    you    had    a   Jew    or    a   wench   with 
you  ? 
Jos.  Surf.    Neither,  brother,  I  assure  you. 

Chas.  Surf.  But  what  has  made  Sir  Peter  steal 
off  ?  I  thought  he  had  been  with  you. 

Jos.  Surf.  He  was,  brother  ;  but,  hearing  you  were 
coming,  he  did  not  choose  to  stay. 

Chas.  Surf.  What !  was  the  old  gentleman  afraid 
I  wanted  to  borrow  money  of  him  ? 

Jos.  Surf.  No,  sir  :  but  I  am  sorry  to  find,  Charles, 
you  have  lately  given  that  worthy  man  grounds  for 
great  uneasiness. 

Chas.  Surf.  Yes,  they  tell  me  I  do  that  to  a  great 
many  worthy  men.  —  But  how  so,  pray  ? 

Jos.  Surf.  To  be  plain  with  you,  brother,  —  he 
thinks  you  are  endeavouring  to  gain  Lady  Teazle's 
affections  from  him. 

Chas.  Surf.    Who,  I  ?      O  Lud !  not  I,   upon  my 
word.  —  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  I  ha  !   so   the    old   fellow   has 
found  out  that  he  has  got  a  young  wife,  has  he  ?  — 
or,  what  is  worse,  Lady  Teazle  has  found  out  she 
has  an  old  husband  ? 

Jos.  Surf.  This  is  no  subject  to  jest  on,  brother. 
He  who  can  laugh 

Chas.  Surf.  True,  true,  as  you  were  going  to 
say  —  then,  seriously,  I  never  had  the  least  idea  of 
what  you  charge  me  with,  upon  my  honour. 


X2l8  SHERIDAN'S   COMEDIES. 

Jos.  Surf.  Well,  it  will  give  Sir  Peter  great  satis- 
faction to  hear  this.  [Raising  his  voice. 
Chas.  Surf.  To  be  sure,, I  once  thought  the  lady 
seemed  to  have  taken  a  fancy  to  me ;  but,  upon  my 
soul,  I  never  gave  her  the  least  encouragement.  — 
Besides,  you  know  my  attachment  to  Maria. 

Jos.  Surf.  But  sure,  brother,  even  if  Lady  Teazle 
had  betrayed  the  fondest  partiality  for  you 

Chas.  Surf.  Why,  look'ee,  Joseph,  I  hope  I  shall 
never  deliberately  do  a  dishonourable  action  ;  but  if  a 
pretty  woman  was  purposely  to  throw  herself  in  my 
way  —  and  that  pretty  woman  married  to  a  man  old 
enough  to  be  her  father 

Jos.  Surf.   Well ! 

Chas.  Surf.  Why,  I  believe  I  should  be  obliged 
to- 

Jos.  Surf.    What  ? 

Chas.  Surf.  To  borrow  a  little  of  your  morality, 
that 's  all.  But,  brother,  do  you  know  now  that  you 
surprise  me  exceedingly,  by  naming  me  with  Lady 
Teazle ;  for,  i'  faith,  I  always  understood  you  were 
her  favourite. 

Jos.  Surf.  Oh,  for  shame,  Charles !  This  retort 
is  foolish. 

Chas.  Surf.  Nay,  I  swear  I  have  seen  you  exchange 
such  significant  glances 

Jos.  Surf.    Nay,  nay,  sir,  this  is  no  jest. 

Chas.  Surf.  Egad,  I  'm  serious !  Don't  you  re- 
member one  day,  when  I  called  here 

Jos.  Surf.    Nay,  pr'ythee,  Charles 

Chas.  Surf.    And  found  you  together 

Jos.  Surf.   Zounds,  sir,  I  insist 

Chas.  Surf.  And  another  time  when  your  ser- 
vant  

Jos.  Surf.  Brother,  brother,  a  word  with  you.  — 
\AsideI\  Gad,  I  must  stop  him. 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL.  2 19 

Chas.  Surf.    Informed,  I  say,  that 

Jos.  Surf.  Hush !  I  beg  your  pardon,  but  Sir 
Peter  has  overheard  all  we  have  been  saying.  I 
knew  you  would  clear  yourself,  or  I  should  not 
have  consented. 

Chas.  Surf.    How,  Sir  Peter  !     Where  is  he  ? 

Jos.  Surf.    Softly,  there  !  \_Points  to  the  closet. 

Chas.  Surf.  Oh,  'fore  Heaven,  I  '11  have  him  out. 
Sir  Peter,  come  forth  ! 

Jos.  Surf.    No,  no 

Chas.  Surf.  I  say,  Sir  Peter,  come  into  court.  — 
\_Pulls  in  SIR  PETER.]  What!  my  old  guardian!  — 
What !  turn  inquisitor,  and  take  evidence  incog.  ? 
Oh,  fie  !  Oh,  fie  ! 

Sir  Peter.  Give  me  your  hand,  Charles  —  I  believe 
I  have  suspected  you  wrongfully :  but  you  mustn't 
be  angry  with  Joseph  —  't  was  my  plan  ! 

Chas.  Surf.    Indeed. 

Sir  Peter.  But  I  acquit  you.  I  promise  you  I 
don't  think  near  so  ill  of  you  as  I  did  :  what  I  have 
heard  has  given  me  great  satisfaction. 

Chas.  Surf.  Egad,  then,  't  was  lucky  you  did  n't 
hear  any  more.  Was  n't  it,  Joseph  ? 

[Aside  to  JOSEPH. 

Sir  Peter.    Ah  !  you  would  have  retorted  on  him. 

Chas.  Surf.    Ah,  ay,  that  was  a  joke. 

Sir  Peter.    Yes,  yes,  I  know  His  honour  too  well. 

Chas.  Surf.  But  you  might  as  well  have  suspected 
him  as  me  in  this  matter,  for  all  that.  Might  n't  he, 
Joseph  ?  [Aside  to  JOSEPH. 

Sir  Peter.    Well,  well,  I  believe  you. 

Jos.  Surf.   Would  they  were  both  out  of  the  room  ! 

[Aside. 

Sir  Peter.  And  in  future,  perhaps  we  may  not  be 
such  strangers. 


/220  SHERIDAN'S   COMEDIES. 

Reenter  SERVANT,  and  whispers  JOSEPH  SURFACE. 

Serv.  Lady  Sneerwell  is  below,  and  says  she  will 
come  up. 

Jos.  Surf.  Lady  Sneerwell !  Gad's  life  !  she  must 
not  come  here.  \_Exit  SERVANT.]  Gentlemen,  I  beg 
pardon  —  I  must  wait  on  you  down  stairs  :  here  is  a 
person  come  on  particular  business. 

Chas.  Surf.  Well,  you  can  see  him  in  another 
room.  Sir  Peter  and  I  have  not  met  a  long  time, 
and  I  have  something  to  say  to  him. 

Jos.  Surf.  \_Aside.~]  They  must  not  be  left  to- 
gether. —  \Aloud^\  I  '11  send  this  man  away,  and 
return  directly.  —  [Aside  to  SIR  PETER.]  Sir  Peter, 
not  a  word  of  the  French  milliner. 

Sir  Peter.  [Aside  to  JOSEPH  SURFACE.]  I !  not  for 
the  world  !  —  [Exit  JOSEPH  SURFACE.]  Ah,  Charles, 
if  you  associated  more  with  your  brother,  one  might 
indeed  hope  for  your  reformation.  'He  is  a  man  of 
sentiment.  —  Well,  there  is  nothing  in  the  world  so 
noble  as  a  man  of  sentiment. 

Chas.  Surf.  Pshaw  !  he  is  too  moral  by  half ;  and 
so  apprehensive  of  his  good  name,  as  he  calls  it, 
that  I  suppose  he  would  as  soon  let  a  priest  into  his 
house  as  a  girl. 

Sir  Peter.  No,  no,  —  come,  come,  —  you  wrong 
him.  No,  no  !  Joseph  is  no  rake,  but  he  is  no  such 
saint  either  in  that  respect.  —  [_AsideJ\  I  have  a 
great  mind  to  tell  him  —  we  should  have  such  a 
laugh  at  Joseph. 

Chas.  Surf.  Oh,  hang  him  !  he  's  a  very  anchorite, 
a  young  hermit. 

Sir  Peter.  Hark'ee  —  you  must  not  abuse  him  ; 
he  may  chance  to  hear  of  it  again,  I  promise  you. 

Chas.  Surf.    Why,  you  won't  tell  him  ? 


THE   SCHOOL  FOR   SCANDAL.  221 

Sir  Peter.  No  —  but  —  this  way.  —  [Aside.']  Egad, 
I'll  tell  him.  —  [AloudJ]  Hark'ee —  have  you  a 
mind  to  have  a  good  laugh  at  Joseph  ? 

Chas.  Surf.    I  should  like  it  of  all  things. 

Sir  Peter.  Then,  i' faith,  we  will!  —  I'll  be  quit 
with  him  for  discovering  me.  —  He  had  a  girl  with 
him  when  I  called.  \_Whispers. 

Chas.  Surf.    What !  Joseph  ?  you  jest. 

Sir  Peter.  Hush  !  —  a  little  French  milliner  —  and 
the  best  of  the  jest  is  —  she  is  in  the  room  now. 

Chas.  Surf.    The  devil  she  is  ! 

Sir  Peter.    Hush  !  I  tell  you.     \_Points  to  the  screen. 

Chas.  Surf.  Behind  the  screen  !  'Slife,  let 's 
unveil  her ! 

Sir  Peter.  No,  no,  —  he's  coming: — you  shan't 
indeed  ! 

Chas.  Surf.  Oh,  egad,  we  '11  have  a  peep  at  the 
little  milliner ! 

Sir  Peter.  Not  for  the  world  !  —  Joseph  will  never 
forgive  me. 

Chas.  Surf.    I  '11  stand  by  you  — 

Sir  Peter.    Odds,  here  he  is  ! 

Re'enter  JOSEPH  SURFACE  just  as  CHARLES  SURFACE 
throws  down  the  screen. 

Chas.  Surf.    Lady  Teazle,  by  all  that 's  wonderful. 

Sir  Peter.    Lady  Teazle,  by  'all  that  's  damnable  ! 

Chas.  Surf.  Sir  Peter,  this  is  one  of  the  smartest 
French  milliners  I  ever  saw.  Egad,  you  seem  all  to 
have  been  diverting  yourselves  here  at  hide  and 
seek,  and  I  don't  see  who  is  out  of  the  secret.  Shall 
I  beg  your  ladyship  to  inform  me  ?  Not  a  word  !  — 
Brother,  will  you  be  pleased  to  explain  this  matter  ? 
What !  is  Morality  dumb  too?  —  Sir  Peter,  though  I 
found  you  in  the  dark,  perhaps  you  are  not  so  now  1 


222  SHERIDAN'S   COMEDIES. 

All  mute  !  —  Well  —  though  I  can  make  nothing  of 
the  affair,  I  suppose  you  perfectly  understand  one 
another  ;  so  I  will  leave  you  to  yourselves.  — [Going.] 
Brother,  I'  m  sorry  to  find  you  have  given  that 
worthy  man  grounds  for  so  much  uneasiness.  —  Sir 
Peter !  there  's  nothing  in  the  world  so  noble  as  a 
man  of  sentiment !  \They  stand  for  some  time  looking 
at  each  other.~\  \_Exit  CHARLES. 

Jos.  Surf.  Sir  Peter  —  notwithstanding — I  con- 
fess —  that  appearances  are  against  me  —  if  you  will 
afford  me  your  patience  —  I  make  no  doubt  —  but  I 
shall  explain  everything  to  your  satisfaction. 

Sir  Peter.    If  you  please,  sir. 

Jos.  Surf.  The  fact  is,  sir,  that  Lady  Teazle, 
knowing  my  pretensions  to  your  ward  Maria  —  I  say 
sir,  Lady  Teazle,  being  apprehensive  of  the  jealousy 
of  your  temper —  and  knowing  my  friendship  to  the 
family  —  she,  sir,  I  say  —  called  here  —  in  order 
that  —  I  might  explain  these  pretensions  —  but  on 
your  coming  —  being  apprehensive  —  as  I  said  —  of 
your  jealousy  —  she  withdrew  —  and  this,  you  may 
depend  on  it,  is  the  whole  truth  of  the  matter. 

Sir  Peter.  A  very  clear  account,  upon  my  word  ; 
and  I  dare  swear  the  lady  will  vouch  for  every 
article  of  it. 

Lady  Teaz.    For  not  one  word  of  it,  Sir  Peter  ! 

Sir  Peter.  How  !  don't  you  think  it  worth  while 
to  agree  in  the  lie  ? 

Lady  Teaz.  There  is  not  one  syllable  of  truth  in 
what  that  gentleman  has  told  you. 

Sir  Peter.    I  believe  you,  upon  my  soul,  ma'am  ! 

Jos.  Surf.  {Aside  to  LADY  TEAZLE.]  'Sdeath, 
madam,  will  you  betray  me  ? 

Lady  Teaz.  Good  Mr.  Hypocrite,  by  your  leave, 
I  '11  speak  for  myself. 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL.  223 

Sir  Peter.  Ay,  let  her  alone,  sir  ;  you  '11  find  she  '11 
make  out  a  better  story  than  you,  without  prompting. 

Lady  Teaz.  Hear  me,  Sir  Peter  !  —  I  came  here 
on  no  matter  relating  to  your  ward,  and  even  igno- 
rant of  this  gentleman's  pretensions  to  her.  But  I 
came,  seduced  by  his  insidious  arguments,  at  least 
to  listen  to  his  pretended  passion,  if  not  to  sacrifice 
your  honour  to  his  baseness. 

Sir  Peter.  Now,  I  believe,  the  truth  is  coming, 
indeed ! 

Jos.  Surf.    The  woman  's  mad. 

Lady  Teaz.  No,  sir  ;  she  has  recovered  her  senses, 
and  your  own  arts  have  furnished  her  with  the 
means.  —  Sir  Peter,  I  do  not  expect  you  to  credit 
me  —  but  the  tenderness  you  expressed  for  me, 
when  I  am  sure  you  could  not  think  I  was  a  witness 
to  it,  has  so  penetrated  to  my  heart,  that  had  I  left 
the  place  without  the  shame  of  this  discovery,  my 
future  life  should  have  spoken  the  sincerity  of  my 
gratitude.  As  for  that  smooth-tongued  hypocrite, 
who  would  have  seduced  the  wife  of  his  too  credu- 
lous friend,  while  he  affected  honourable  addresses  to 
his  ward  —  I  behold  him  now  in  a  light  so  truly 
despicable,  that  I  shall  never  again  respect  myself 
for  having  listened  to  him.  {Exit  LADY  TEAZLE. 

Jos.  Surf.  Notwithstanding  all  this,  Sir  Peter, 
Heaven  knows 

Sir  Peter.  That  you  are  a  villain  !  and  so  I  leave 
you  to  your  conscience. 

Jos.  Surf.  You  are  too  rash,  Sir  Peter ;  you  shall 
hear  me.  The  man  who  shuts  out  conviction  by 
refusing  to 

Sir  Peter.    Oh,  damn  your  sentiments  ! 

\Exeunt  SIR  PETER  and  JOSEPH  SURFACE,  talking. 


224  SHERIDAN'S    COMEDIES. 


ACT  V. 

SCENE  I.  —  The  Library  in  JOSEPH  SURFACE'S  House. 
Enter  JOSEPH  SURFACE  and  SERVANT. 

Jos.  Surf.  Mr.  Stanley  !  and  why  should  you  think 
I  would  see  him  ?  you  must  know  he  comes  to  ask 
something. 

Serv.  Sir,  I  should  not  have  let  him  in,  but  that 
Mr.  Rowley  came  to  the  door  with  him. 

Jos.  Surf.  Psha !  blockhead  !  to  suppose  that  I 
should  now  be  in  a  temper  to  receive  visits  from 
poor  relations !  —  Well,  why  don't  you  show  the 
fellow  up  ? 

Serv.  I  will,  sir.  —  Why,  sir,  it  was  not  my  fault 
that  Sir  Peter  discovered  my  lady  — 

Jos.  Surf.  Go,  fool !  —  [Exit  SERVANT.]  Sure  For- 
tune never  played  a  man  of  my,  policy  such  a  trick 
before  !  My  character  with  Sir  Peter,  my  hopes  with 
Maria,  destroyed  in  a  moment !  I  'm  in  a  rare 
humour  to  listen  to  other  people's  distresses !  I 
shan't  be  able  to  bestow  even  a  benevolent  senti- 
ment on  Stanley.  —  So  !  here  he  comes,  and  Rowley 
with  him.  I  must  try  to  recover  myself,  and  put  a 
little  charity  into  my  face,  however.  [Exit. 

Enter  SIR  OLIVER  SURFACE  and  ROWLEY. 

Sir  Oliv.  What !  does  he  avoid  us  ?  That  was  he, 
was  it  not  ? 


THE   SCHOOL  FOR   SCANDAL.  22$ 

Row.  It  was,  sir.  But  I  doubt  you  are  come  a 
little  too  abruptly.  His  nerves  are  so  weak,  that  the 
sight  of  a  poor  relation  may  be  too  much  for  him. 
I  should  have  gone  fkst  to  break  it  to  him. 

Sir  Oliv.  Oh,  plague  of  his  nerves !  Yet  this  is 
he  whom  Sir  Peter  extols  as  a  man  of  the  most 
benevolent  way  of  thinking ! 

Row.  As  to  his  way  of  thinking,  I  cannot  pretend 
to  decide  ;  for,  to  do  him  justice,  he  appears  to  have 
as  much  speculative  benevolence  as  any  private 
gentleman  in  the  kingdom,  though  he  is  seldom  so 
sensual  as  to  indulge  himself  in  the  exercise  of 
it. 

Sir  Oliv.  Yet  he  has  a  string  of  charitable  senti- 
ments at  his  fingers'  ends. 

Row.  Or,  rather,  at  his  tongue's  end,  Sir  Oliver ; 
for  I  believe  there  is  no  sentiment  he  has  such  faith 
in  as  that  Charity  begins  at  home. 

Sir  Oliv.  And  his,  I  presume,  is  of  that  domestic 
sort  which  never  stirs  abroad  at  all. 

Row.  I  doubt  you  '11  find  it  so ; — but  he  's  coming. 
I  must  n't  seem  to  interrupt  you  ;  and  you  know, 
immediately  as  you  leave  him,  I  come  in  to  announce 
your  arrival  in  your  real  character. 

Sir  Oliv.  True ;  and  afterwards  you  '11  meet  me 
at  Sir  Peter's. 

Row.    Without  losing  a  moment.  \_Exit. 

Sir  Oliv.  I  don't  like  the  complaisance  of  his 
features. 

Reenter  JOSEPH  SURFACE. 

Jos.  Surf.  Sir,  I  beg  you  ten  thousand  pardons 
for  keeping  you  a  moment  waiting  —  Mr.  Stanley,  I 
presume. 

Sir  Oliv.   At  your  service. 


226  SHERIDAN'S   COMEDIES. 

Jos.  Surf.    Sir,  I  beg  you  will  do  me  the  honour 
to  sit  down  —  I  entreat  you,  sir 


Sir  Oliv.    Dear  sir  —  there's  no  occasion. 
Too  civil  by  half  !  . 

Jos.  Surf.  I  have  not  the  pleasure  of  knowing  you, 
Mr.  Stanley  ;  but  I  am  extremely  happy  to  see  you 
look  so  well.  You  were  nearly  related  to  my  mother, 
I  think,  Mr.  Stanley. 

Sir  Oliv.  I  was,  sir  ;  so  nearly  that  my  present 
poverty,  I  fear,  may  do  discredit  to  her  wealthy  chil- 
dren, else  I  should  not  have  presumed  to  trouble  you. 

Jos.  Surf.  Dear  sir,  there  needs  no  apology  ;  —  he 
that  is  in  distress,  though  a  stranger,  has  a  right  to 
claim  kindred  with  the  wealthy.  I  am  sure  I  wish  I 
was  one  of  that  class,  and  had  it  in  my  power  to 
offer  you  even  a  small  relief. 

Sir  Oliv.  If  your  uncle,  Sir  Oliver,  were  here,  I 
should  have  a  friend. 

Jos.  Surf.  I  wish  he  was,  sir,  with  all  my  heart  : 
you  should  not  want  an  advocate  with  him,  believe 
me,  sir. 

Sir  Oliv.  I  should  not  need  one  —  my  distresses 
would  recommend  me.  But  I  imagined  his  bounty 
would  enable  you  to  become  the  agent  of  his  charity. 

Jos.  Surf.  My  dear  sir,  you  were  strangely  mis- 
informed. Sir  Oliver  is  a  worthy  man,  a  very 
worthy  man  ;  but  avarice,  Mr.  Stanley,  is  the  vice  of 
age.  I  will  tell  you,  my  good  sir,  in  confidence,  what 
he  has  done  for  me  has  been  a  mere  nothing  ;  though 
people,  I  know,  have  thought  otherwise,  and,  for  my 
part,  I  never  chose  to  contradict  the  report. 

Sir  Oliv.  What  !  has  he  never  transmitted  you 
bullion  —  rupees  —  pagodas  ? 

Jos.  Surf.  Oh,  dear  sir,  nothing  of  the  kind  !  No, 
no  ;  a  few  presents  now  and  then  —  china,  shawls, 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL.  22  / 

congou  tea,  avadavats,  and  Indian  crackers  —  little 
more,  believe  me. 

Sir  Oliv.  Here  's  gratitude  for  twelve  thousand 
pounds  !  —  Avadavats  and  Indian  crackers  !  [Aside. 

Jos.  Surf.  Then,  my  dear  sir,  you  have  heard,  I 
doubt  not,  of  the  extravagance  of  my  brother  :  there 
are  very  few  would  credit  what  I  have  done  for  that 
unfortunate  young  man. 

Sir  Oliv.    Not  I,  for  one  !  [Aside. 

Jos.  Surf.  The  sums  I  have  lent  him  !  —  Indeed 
I  have  been  exceedingly  to  blame  ;  it  was  an  amiable 
weakness  ;  however,  I  don't  pretend  to  defend  it, — 
and  now  I  feel  it  doubly  culpable,  since  it  has  de- 
prived me  of  the  pleasure  of  serving  you,  Mr.  Stanley, 
as  my  heart  dictates. 

Sir  Oliv.  [Aside.]  Dissembler  !  —  [Aloud]  Then, 
sir,  you  can't  assist  me? 

Jos.  Surf.  At  present,  it  grieves  me  to  say,  I  can- 
not ;  but,  whenever  I  have  the  ability,  you  may 
depend  upon  hearing  from  me. 

Sir  Oliv.    I  am  extremely  sorry 

Jos.  Surf.  Not  more  than  I,  believe  me ;  to  pity 
without  the  power  to  relieve,  is  still  more  painful 
than  to  ask  and  be  denied. 

Sir  Oliv.  Kind  sir,  your  most  obedient  humble 
servant. 

Jos.  Surf.  You  leave  me  deeply  affected,  Mr. 
Stanley.  —  William,  be  ready  to  open  the  door. 

[Calls  to  SERVANT. 

Sir  Oliv.    Oh,  dear  sir,  no  ceremony. 

Jos.  Surf.    Your  very  obedient. 

Sir  Oliv.    Sir,  your  most  obsequious. 

Jos.  Surf.  You  may  depend  upon  hearing  from 
me,  whenever  I  can  be  of  service. 

Sir  Oliv.    Sweet  sir,  you  are  too  good  1 


228  SHERIDAN'S   COMEDIES. 

Jos.  Surf.  In  the  meantime  I  wish  you  health  and 
spirits. 

Sir  Oliv.  Your  ever  grateful  and  perpetual  humble 
servant. 

Jos.  Surf.  Sir,  yours  as  sincerely. 

Sir.  Oliv.  [Aside  J\    Charles,  you  are  my  heir  ! 


Jos.  Surf.  This  is  one  bad  effect  of  a  good  char- 
acter ;  it  invites  application  from  the  unfortunate, 
flmd  there  needs  no  small  degree  of  address  to  gain 
the  reputation  of  benevolence  without  incurring  the 
expense.}  The  silver  ore  of  pure  charity  is  an  ex- 
pensive article  in  the  catalogue  of  a  man's  good 
qualities  ;  whereas  the  sentimental  French  plate  I 
use  instead  of  it  makes  just  as  good  a  show,  and  pays 
no  tax. 

Re  enter  ROWLEY. 

Row.  Mr.  Surface,  your  servant  :  I  was  appre- 
hensive of  interrupting  you,  though  my  business 
demands  immediate  attention,  as  this  note  will  inform 
you. 

Jos.  Surf.  Always  happy  to  see  Mr.  Rowley,  —  a 
rascal.  —  [Aside.  Reads  the  letter  •.]  Sir  Oliver  Sur- 
face !  —  My  uncle  arrived  ! 

Row.  He  is,  indeed  :  we  have  just  parted  —  quite 
well,  after  a  speedy  voyage,  and  impatient  to  em- 
brace his  worthy  nephew. 

Jos.  Surf.  I  am  astonished  !  —  William  !  stop  Mr. 
Stanley,  if  he  's  not  gone.  [Calls  to  SERVANT. 

Row.    Oh  !  he  's  out  of  reach,  I  believe. 

Jos.  Surf.  Why  did  you  not  let  me  know  this  when 
you  came  in  together  ? 

Row.  I  thought  you  had  particular  business.  But 
I  must  be  gone  to  inform  your  brother,  and  appoint 


THE   SCHOOL   FOR   SCANDAL.  22Q 

him  here  to  meet  your  uncle.  He  will  be  with  you 
in  a  quarter  of  an  hour. 

Jos.  Surf.  So  he  says.  Well,  I  am  strangely 
•overjoyed  at  his  coming.  —  \_Aside.~]  Never,  to  be 
sure,  was  anything  so  damned  unlucky  ! 

Row.  You  will  be  delighted  to  see  how  well  he 
looks. 

Jos.  Surf.  Ah  !  I  'm  rejoiced  to  hear  it.  —  \_Aside.~\ 
Just  at  this  time  ! 

Row.  I  '11  tell  him  how  impatiently  you  expect 
him. 

Jos.  Surf.  Do,  do ;  pray  give  my  best  duty  and 
affection.  Indeed,  I  cannot  express  the  sensations 
I  feel  at  the  thought  of  seeing  him.  [Exit  ROW- 
LEY.] Certainly  his  coming  just  at  this  time  is  the 
cruellest  piece  of  ill-fortune.  [Exit. 


SCENE  II.  —  A  Room  in  SIR  PETER  TEAZLE'S 
House. 

Enter  MRS.  CANDOUR  and  MAID. 

Maid.  Indeed,  ma'am,  my  lady  will  see  nobody  at 
present. 

Mrs.  Can.  Did  you  tell  her  it  was  her  friend, 
Mrs.  Candour? 

Maid.  Yes,  ma'am  ;  but  she  begs  you  will  excuse 
her. 

Mrs.  Can.  Do  go  again  :  I  shall  be  glad  to  see 
her,  if  it  be  only  for  a  moment,  for  I  'm  sure  she 
must  be  in  great  distress. —  \_Exit  MAID.]  Dear 
heart,  how  provoking !  I  'm  not  mistress  of  half  the 
circumstances  !  ,  We  shall  have  the  whole  affair  in 
the  newspapers,  with  the  names  of  the  parties  at 


230  SHERIDAN'S   COMEDIES. 

length,  before  I  have  dropped  the  story  at  a  dozen 
houses./ 

Enter  SIR  BENJAMIN  BACKBITE. 
Oh,  dear  Sir  Benjamin !  you  have  heard,  I  suppose 


Sir  Benj.   Of  Lady  Teazle  and  Mr.  Surface 

Mrs.  Can.    And  Sir  Peter's  discovery 

Sir  Benj.  Oh.  the  strangest  piece  of  business,  to 
be  sure ! 

Mrs.  Can.  Well,  I  never  was  so  surprised  in  my 
life.  I  am  so  sorry  for  all  parties,  indeed. 

Sir  Benj.  Now,  I  don't  pity  Sir  Peter  at  all :  he 
was  so  extravagantly  partial  to  Mr.  Surface. 

Mrs.  Can.  Mr.  Surface  !  Why,  't  was  with  Charles 
Lady  Teazle  was  detected. 

Sir  Benj.  No,  no,  I  tell  you  :  Mr.  Surface  is  the 
gallant. 

Mrs.  Can.  No  such  thing!  Charles  is  the  man. 
'T  was  Mr.  Surface  brought  Sir  Peter  on  purpose  to 
discover  them. 

Sir  Benj.    I  tell  you  I  had  it  from  one 

Mrs.  Can.   And  I  have  it  from  one 


Sir  Benj.   Who  had  it  from  one,  who  had  it 

Mrs.  Can.    From  one  immediately —      But  here 

comes  Lady  Sneerwell;  perhaps  she  knows  the  whole 

affair. 

Enter  LADY  SNEERWELL. 

Lady  Sneer.  So,  my  dear  Mrs.  Candour,  here  's  a 
sad  affair  of  our  friend  Lady  Teazle  ! 

Mrs.  Can.  Ay,  my  dear  friend,  who  would  have 
thought 

Lady  Sneer.  Well,  there  is  no  trusting  appear- 
ances ;  though,  indeed,  she  was  always  too  lively  for 
me. 


THE   SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL. 


Mrs.  Can.  To  be  sure,  her  manners  were  a 
little  too  free  ;  but  then  she  was  so  young  ! 

Lady  Sneer.  And  had,  indeed,  some  good  quali- 
ties. 

Mrs.  Can.  So  she  had,  indeed.  But  have  you 
heard  the  particulars  ? 

Lady  Sneer.  No;  but  everybody  says  that  Mr. 
Surface  - 

Sir  Benj.  Ay,  there  ;  I  told  you  Mr.  Surface  was 
the  man. 

Mrs.  Can.  No,  no  :  indeed  the  assignation  was 
with  Charles. 

Lady  Sneer.  With  Charles  !  You  alarm  me,  Mrs. 
Candour  ! 

Mrs.  Can.  Yes,  yes  ;  he  was  the  lover.  Mr.  Sur- 
face, to  do  him  justice,  was  only  the  informer. 

Sir  Benj.    Well,  I  '11  not  dispute  with   you,  Mrs. 
Candour;  but,  be  it  which  it  may,  I  hope  that  Sirj 
Peter's  wound,  will  not  - 

Mrs.  Can.  Sir  Peter's  wound  !  Oh,  mercy  !  I 
did  n't  hear  a  word  of  their  fighting. 

Lady  Sneer.   Nor  I,  a  syllable. 

Sir  Benj.    No  !  what,  no  mention  of  the  duel  ? 

Mrs.  Can.    Not  a  word. 

Sir  Benj.  Oh,  yes  :  they  fought  before  they  left 
the  room. 

Lady  Sneer.    Pray  let  us  hear. 

Mrs.  Can.    Ay,  do  oblige  us  with  the  duel. 

Sir  Benj.  Sir,  says  Sir  Peter,  immediately  after  the 
discovery,  you  are  a  most  ungrateful  fellow  . 

Mrs.  Can.    Ay,  to  Charles  - 

Sir  Benj.  No,  no  —  to  Mr.  Surface  —  a  most  un- 
grateful fellow  ;  and  old  as  I  am,  sir,  says  he,  I  insist 
on  immediate  satisfaction. 

Mrs.  Can.   Ay,  that  must  have  been  to  Charles  ; 


232  SHERIDAN'S   COMEDIES. 

for  't  is  very  unlikely  Mr.  Surface  should  fight  in  his 
own  house. 

Sir  Benj.  Gad's  life,  ma'am,  not  at  all — giving 
me  immediate  satisfaction. — On  this,  ma'am,  Lady 
Teazle,  seeing  Sir  Peter  in  such  danger,  ran  out  of 
the  room  in  strong  hysterics,  and  Charles  after  her, 
calling  out  for  hartshorn  and  water ;  then,  madam, 
they  began  to  fight  with  swords 

Enter  CRABTREE. 

Crab.  With  pistols,  nephew  —  pistols  !  I  have  it 
from  undoubted  authority. 

Mrs.  Can.    Oh,  Mr.  Crabtree,  then  it  is  all  true  ! 

Crab.  Too  true,  indeed,  madam,  and  Sir  Peter  is 
dangerously  wounded 

Sir  Benj.  By  a  thrust  in  second  quite  through  his 
left  side 

Crab.    By  a  bullet  lodged  in  the  thorax. 

Mrs.  Can.    Mercy  on  me  !     Poor  Sir  Peter  ! 

Crab.  Yes,  madam ;  though  Charles  .would  have 
avoided  the  matter,  if  he  could. 

Mrs.  Can.  I  told  you  who  it  was  ;  I  knew7  Charles 
was  the  person. 

Sir  Benj.  My  uncle,  I  see,  knows  nothing  of  the 
matter. 

Crab.  But  Sir  Peter  taxed  him  with  the  basest 
ingratitude 

Sir  Benj.    That  I  told  you,  you  know 

Crab.  Do,  nephew,  let  me  speak !  —  and  insisted 
on  immediate 

Sir  Benj.    Just  as  I  said 

Crab.  Odds  life,  nephew,  allow  others  to  know 
something  too  !  A  pair  of  pistols  lay  on  the  bureau 
(for  Mr.  Surface,  it  seems,  had  come  home  the  night 
before  late  from  Salthill,  where  he  had  been  to  see 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR   SCANDAL.  233 

the  Montem  with  a  friend,  who  has  a  son  at  Eton), 
so,  unluckily,  the  pistols  were  left  charged. 

Sir  Benj.    I  heard  nothing  of  this. 

Crab.  Sir  Peter  forced  Charles  to  take  one,  and 
they  fired,  it  seems,  pretty  nearly  together.  Charles's 
shot  took  effect,  as  I  tell  you,  and  Sir  Peter's  missed  ; 
but,  what  is  very  extraordinary,  the  ball  struck  against 
a  little  bronze  Shakespeare  that  stood  over  the  fire- 
place, grazed  out  of  the  window  at  a  right  angle,  and 
wounded  the  postman,  who  was  just  coming  to  the 
door  with  a  double  letter  from  Northamptonshire. 

Sir  Benj.  My  uncle's  account  is  more  circumstan- 
tial, I  confess  ;  but  I  believe  mine  is  the  true  one, 
for  all  that. 

Lady  Sneer.  \_Aside.~\  I  am  more  interested  in 
this  affair  than  they  imagine,  and  must  have  better 
information.  [J^/'/LADY  SNEERWELL. 

Sir  Benj.  Ah !  Lady  SneerwelPs  alarm  is  very 
easily  accounted  for. 

Crab.  Yes,  yes,  they  certainly  do  say  —  but  that 's 
neither  here  nor  there. 

Mrs.  Can.  But,  pray,  where  is  Sir  Peter  at  pres- 
ent? 

Crab.  Oh,  they  brought  him  home,  and  he  is  now 
in  the  house,  though  the  servants  are  ordered  to 
deny  him. 

Mrs.  Can.  I  believe  so,  and  Lady  Teazle,  I  sup- 
pose, attending  him. 

Crab.  Yes,  yes ;  and  I  saw  one  of  the  faculty 
enter  just  before  me. 

Sir  Benj.    Hey  !  who  comes  here  ? 

Crab.    Oh,  this  is  he  :  the  physician,  depend  on  't. 

Mrs .  Can.  O  h ,  certai  n  ly !  it  m  us  t  be  the  phy  s  ici  an  ; 
and  now  we  shall  know. 


234  SHERIDAN'S   COMEDIES. 

Enter  SIR  OLIVER  SURFACE. 

Crab.    Well,  doctor,  what  hopes  ? 

Mrs.  Can.   Ay,  doctor,  how  's  your  patient  ? 

Sir  Benj.  Now,  doctor,  is  n't  it  a  wound  with  a 
small-sword  ? 

Crab.  A  bullet  lodged  in  the  thorax,  for  a  hun- 
dred ! 

Sir  Oliv.  Doctor !  a  wound  with  a  small-sword ! 
and  a  bullet  in  the  thorax !  —  Oons !  are  you  mad, 
good  people  ? 

Sir  Benj.    Perhaps,  sir,  you  are  not  a  doctor  ? 

Sir  Oliv.  Truly,  I  am  to  thank  you  for  my  degree, 
if  I  am. 

Crab.  Only  a  friend  of  Sir  Peter's,  then,  I 
presume.  But,  sir,  you  must  have  heard  of  his 
accident  ? 

Sir  Oliv.    Not  a  word  ! 

Crab.    Not  of  his  being  dangerously  wounded  ? 

Sir  Oliv.    The  devil  he  is  ! 

Sir  Benj.    Run  through  the  body 

Crab.    Shot  in  the  breast 


Sir  Benj.    By  one  .Mr.  ,Surface 

Crab.    Ay,  the  younger. 

Sir  Oliv.  Hey !  what  the  plague !  you  seem  to 
differ  strangely  in  your  accounts  :  however,  you  agree 
that  Sir  Peter  is  dangerously  wounded. 

Sir  Benj.    Oh,  yes,  we  agree  in  that. 

Crab.  Yes,  yes,  I  believe  there  can  be  no  doubt 
of  that. 

Sir  Oliv.  Then,  upon  my  word,  for  a  person  in 
that  situation,  he  is  the  most  imprudent  man  alive ; 
for  here  he  comes,  walking  as  if  nothing  at  all  was 
the  matter. 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR   SCANDAL.  235 

Enter  SIR  PETER  TEAZLE. 

Odds  heart,  Sir  Peter !  you  are  come  in  good  time,  I 
promise  you  ;  for  we  had  just  given  you  over ! 

Sir  Benj.  \_Aside  to  CRABTREE.]  Egad,  uncle,  this 
is  the  most  sudden  recovery ! 

Sir  Oliv.  Why,  man  !  what  do  you  out  of  bed  with 
a  small-sword  through  your  body,  and  a  bullet  lodged 
in  your  thorax  ? 

Sir  Peter.    A  small-sword  and  a  bullet ! 

Sir  Oliv.  Ay ;  these  gentlemen  would  have  killed 
you  without  law  or  physic,  and  wanted  to  dub  me  a 
doctor,  to  make  me  an  accomplice. 

Sir  Peter.    Why,  what  is  all  this  ? 

Sir  Benj.  We  rejoice,  Sir  Peter,  that  the  story  of 
the  duel  is  not  true,  and  are  sincerely  sorry  for  your 
other  misfortune. 

Sir  Peter.    So,  so  ;  all  over  the  town  already !  [Aside. 

Crab.  Though,  Sir  Peter,  you  were  certainly 
vastly  to  blame  to  marry  at  your  years. 

Sir  Peter.    Sir,  what  business  is  that  of  yours  ? 

Mrs.  Can.  Though,  indeed,  as  Sir  Peter  made  so 
good  a  husband,  he  's  very  much  to  be  pitied. 

Sir  Peter.  Plague  on  your  pity,  ma'am  !  I  desire 
none  of  it. 

Sir  Benj.  However,  Sir  Peter,  you  must  not  mind 
the  laughing  and  jests  you  will  meet  with  on  the 
occasion. 

Sir  Peter.  Sir,  sir !  I  desire  to  be  master  in  my 
own  house. 

Crab.  'T  is  no  uncommon  case,  that 's  one  com- 
fort. 

Sir  Peter.  I  insist  on  being  left  to  myself :  without 
ceremony,  —  I  insist  on  your  leaving  my  house 
directly ! 


236  SHERIDAN'S   COMEDIES. 

Mrs.  Can.  Well,  well,  we  are  going;  and  depend 
on  't,  we  '11  make  the  best  report  of  it  we  can.  [Exit 

Sir  Peter.    Leave  my  house  ! 

Crab.    And  tell  how  hardly  you  Ve  been  treated. 

[Exit 

Sir  Peter.    Leave  my  house  ! 

Sir  Benj.    And  how  patiently  you  bear  it.      [Exit. 

Sir  Peter.  Fiends !  vipers !  furies !  Oh !  that  their 
own  venom  would  choke  them  ! 

Sir  Oliv.  They  are  very  provoking,  indeed,  Sir 
Peter. 

Enter  ROWLEY. 

Row.  I  heard  high  words  :  what  has  ruffled  you, 
sir? 

Sir  Peter.  Pshaw !  what  signifies  asking  ?  Do  I 
ever  pass  a  day  without  my  vexations  ? 

Row.   Well,  I  'm  not  inquisitive. 

Sir  Oliv.  Well,  Sir  Peter,  I  have  seen  'both  my 
nephews  in  the  manner  we  proposed. 

Sir  Peter.    A  precious  couple  they  are  ! 

Row.  Yes,  and  Sir  Oliver  is  convinced  that  your 
judgment  was  right,  Sir  Peter. 

Sir  Oliv.  Yes,  I  find  Joseph  is  indeed  the  man, 
after  all. 

Row.  Ay,  as  Sir  Peter  says,  he  is  a  man  of  senti- 
ment. 

Sir  Oliv.  And  acts  up  to  the  sentiments  he  pro- 
fesses. 

Row.    It  certainly  is  edification  to  hear  him  talk. 

Sir  Oliv.  Oh,  he  's  a  model  for  the  young  men  of 
the  age.  —  But  how  's  this,  Sir  Peter?  you  don't  join 
us  in  your  friend  Joseph's  praise,  as  I  expected. 

Sir  Peter.  Sir  Oliver,  we  live  in  a  damned  wicked 
world,  and  the  fewer  we  praise  the  better. 


THE   SCHOOL  FOR   SCANDAL.  237 

Row.  What !  do  you  say  so,  Sir  Peter,  who  were 
never  mistaken  in  your  life  ? 

Sir  Peter.  Pshaw  !  plague  on  you  both  !  I  see  by 
your  sneering  you  have  heard  the  whole  affair.  I 
shall  go^  mad  among  you  ! 

Row.  Then,  to  fret  you  no  longer,  Sir  Peter,  we 
are  indeed  acquainted  with  it  all.  I  met  Lady 
Teazle  coming  from  Mr.  Surface's  so  humble,  that 
she  deigned  to  request  me  to  be  her  advocate  with 
you. 

Sir  Peter.    And  does  Sir  Oliver  know  all  this  ? 

Sir  Oliv.    Every  circumstance. 

Sir  Peter.    What  of  the  closet  and  the  screen,  hey  ? 

Sir  Oliv.  Yes,  yes,  and  the  little  French  milliner. 
Oh,  I  have  been  vastly  diverted  with  the  story !  ha  ! 
ha!  ha! 

Sir  Peter.    'T  was  very  pleasant. 

Sir  Oliv.  I  never  laughed  more  in  my  life,  I  as- 
sure you  ;  ah  !  ah  !  ah  ! 

Sir  Peter.    Oh,  vastly  diverting  !  ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! 

Row.  To  be  sure,  Joseph  with  his  sentiments ! 
ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! 

Sir  Peter.  Yes,  yes,  his  sentiments  !  ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! 
Hypocritical  villain  ! 

Sir  Oliv.  Ay,  and  that  rogue  Charles  to  pull  Sir 
Peter  out  of  the  closet !  ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! 

Sir  Peter.  Ha  !  ha  !  't  was  devilish  entertaining, 
to  be  sure ! 

Sir  Oliv.  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  Egad,  Sir  Peter,  I  should 
like  to  have  seen  your  face  when  the  screen  was 
thrown  down  !  ha  !  ha  ! 

Sir  Peter.  Yes,  yes,  my  face  when  the  screen  was 
thrown  down  :  ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  Oh,  I  must  never  show 
my  head  again  ! 

Sir  Oliv.    But  come,  come,  it  is  n't  fair  to  laugh  at 


238  SHERIDAN'S   COMEDIES. 

you  neither,  my  old  friend ;  though,  upon  my  soul,  I 
can't  help  it. 

Sir  Peter.  Oh,  pray  don't  restrain  your  mirth  on 
my  account :  it  does  not  hurt  me  at  all  !  I  laugh 
at  the  whole  affair  myself.  Yes,  yes,  I  think  being  a 
standing  jest  for  all  one's  acquaintance  a  very  happy 
situation.  Oh,  yes,  and  then  of  a  morning  to  read 

the  paragraphs  about  Mr.  S ,  Lady  T ,  and 

Sir  P ,  will  be  so  entertaining ! 

Row.  Without  affectation,  Sir  Peter,  you  may  de- 
spise the  ridicule  of  fools.  But  I  see  Lady  Teazle 
going  towards  the  next  room  ;  I  am  sure  you  must 
desire  a  reconciliation  as  earnestly  as  she  does. 

Sir  Oliv.  Perhaps  my  being  here  prevents  her 
coming  to  you.  Well,  I  '11  leave  honest  Rowley  to 
mediate  between  you  ;  but  he  must  bring  you  all 
presently  to  Mr.  Surface's,  where  I  am  now  return- 
ing, if  not  to  reclaim  a  libertine,  at  least  to  expose 
hypocrisy. 

Sir  Peter.  Ah,  I  '11  be  present  at  your  discovering 
yourself  there  with  all  my  heart ;  though  't  is  a  vile 
unlucky  place  for  discoveries. 

Row.   We  '11  follow.     [Exit  SIR  OLIVER  SURFACE. 

Sir  Peter.  She  is  not  coming  here,  you  see, 
Rowley. 

Row.  No,  but  she  has  left  the  door  of  that  room 
open,  you  perceive.  See,  she  is  in  tears. 

Sir  Peter.  Certainly,  a  little  mortification  appears 
very  becoming  in  a  wife.  Don't  you  think  it  will  do 
her  good  to  let  her  pine  a  little  ? 

Row.    Oh,  this  is  ungenerous  in  you  ! 

Sir  Peter.  Well,  I  know  not  what  to  think.  You 
remember  the  letter  I  found  of  hers  evidently  in- 
tended for  Charles  ? 

Row.    A  mere  forgery,   Sir    Peter !    laid  in  your 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL.  239 

way  on  purpose.  This  is  one  of  the  points  which  I 
intend  Snake  shall  give  you  conviction  of. 

Sir  Peter.  I  wish  I  were  once  satisfied  of  that. 
She  looks  this  way.  What  a  remarkably  elegant 
turn  of  the  head  she  has.  Rowley,  I  '11  go  to  her. 

Row.    Certainly. 

Sir  Peter.  Though,  when  it  is  known  that  we  are 
reconciled,  people  will  laugh  at  me  ten  times  more. 

Row.  Let  them  laugh,  and  retort  their  malice  only 
by  showing  them  you  are  happy  in  spite  of  it. 

Sir  Peter.  I'  faith,  so  I  will !  and,  if  I  'm  not  mis- 
taken, we  may  yet  be  the  happiest  couple  in  the 
country. 

Row.  Nay,  Sir  Peter,  he  who  once  lays  aside  sus- 
picion — 

Sir  Peter.  Hold,  Master  Rowley  I  if  you  have  any 
regard  for  me,  never  let  me  hear  you  utter  anything 
like  a  sentiment :  I  have  had  enough  of  them  to 
serve  me  the  rest  of  my  life.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  III.  —  The  Library  in  JOSEPH  SURFACE'S 
House. 

Enter  JOSEPH  SURFACE  and  LADY  SNEERWELL. 

Lady  Sneer.    Impossible  !     Will  not  Sir  Peter  im- 
mediately be  reconciled  to  Charles,  and  of  course 
no   longer   oppose   his    union   with    Maria?        The* 
thought  is  distraction  to  me. 

Jos.  Surf.    Can  passion  furnish  a  remedy  ? 

Lady  Sneer.  No,  nor  cunning  either.  Oh,  I  was 
a  fool,  an  idiot,  to  league  with  such  a  blunderer ! 

Jos.  Surf.  Sure,  Lady  Sneerwell,  I  am  the  greatest 
sufferer  ;  yet  you  see  I  bear  the  accident  with  calm- 
ness. 


240  SHERIDAN'S   COMEDIES. 

Lady  Sneer.  Because  the  disappointment  does  n't 
reach  your  heart ;  your  interest  only  attached  you  to 
Maria.  Had  you  felt  for  her  what  I  have  for  that 
ungrateful  libertine,  neither  your  temper  nor  hypoc- 
risy could  prevent  your  showing  the  sharpness  of 
your  vexation. 

Jos.  Surf.  But  why  should  your  reproaches  fall  on 
me  for  this  disappointment  ? 

Lady  Sneer.  Are  you  not  the  cause  of  it  ?  Had 
you  not  a  sufficient  field  for  your  roguery  in  impos- 
ing upon  Sir  Peter,  and  supplanting  your  brother, 
but  you  must  endeavour  to  seduce  his  wife  ?  I  hate 
such  an  avarice  of  crimes  ;  't  is  an  unfair  monopoly, 
and  never  prospers. 

Jos.  Surf.  Well,  I  admit  I  have  been  to  blame. 
I  confess  I  deviated  from  the  direct  road  of  wrong, 
but  I  don't  think  we  're  so  totally  defeated  neither. 

Lady  Sneer.    No  ! 

Jos.  Surf.  You  tell  me  you  have  made  a  trial  of 
Snake  since  we  met,  and  that  you  still  believe  him 
faithful  to  us  ? 

Lady  Sneer.    I  do  believe  so. 

Jos.  Surf.  And  that  he  has  undertaken,  should  it 
be  necessary,  to  swear  and  prove  that  Charles  is  at 
this  time  contracted  by  vows  and  honour  to  your  lady- 
ship, which  some  of  his  former  letters  to  you  will 
serve  to  support? 

Lady  Sneer.    This,  indeed,  might  have  assisted. 

Jos.  Surf.  Come,  come;  it  is  not  too  late  yet. — 
{Knocking  at  the  door.~\  But  hark  1  this  is  probably 
my  uncle,  Sir  Oliver  :  retire  to  that  room  ;  we  '11  con- 
sult farther  when  he  is  gone. 

Lady  Sneer.  Well,  but  if  he  should  find  you  out, 
too? 

Jos.  Surf.-  Oh,  I  have  no  fear  of  that.      Sir  Peter 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL.      241 

will  hold  his  tongue  for  his  own  credit's  sake  —  and 
you  may  depend  on  it  I  shall  soon  discover  Sir 
Oliver's  weak  side  ! 

Lady  Sneer.  I  have  no  diffidence  of  your  abilities  : 
only  be  constant  to  one  roguery  at  a  time. 

Jos.  Surf.  I  will,  I  will !  —  [Exit  LADY  SNEER- 
WELL.]  So  !  't  is  confounded  hard,  after  such  bad 
fortune,  to  be  baited  by  one's  confederate  in  evil. 
Well,  at  all  events,  my  character  is  so  much  better 
than  Charles's,  that  I  certainly  —  hey!  —  what  — 
this  is  not  Sir  Oliver,  but  old  Stanley  again.  Plague 
on  't  that  he  should  return  to  tease  me  just  now  ! 
I  shall  have  Sir  Oliver  come  and  find  him  here  — 

and 

Enter  SIR  OLIVER  SURFACE. 

Gad's  life,  Mr.  Stanley,  why  have  you  come  back 
to  plague  me  at  this  time?  You  must  not  stay  now, 
upon  my  word. 

Sir  Oliv.  Sir,  I  hear  your  uncle  Oliver  is  ex- 
pected here,  and  though  he  has  been  so  penurious 
to  you,  I  '11  try  what  he  '11  do  for  me. 

Jos.  Surf.  Sir,  't  is  impossible  for  you  to  stay  now, 
so  I  must  beg come  any  other  time,  and  I  prom- 
ise you  you  shall  be  assisted. 

Sir  Oliv.    No :  Sir  Oliver  and  I  must  be  acquainted. 

Jos.  Surf.  Zounds,  sir  !  then  I  insist  on  your  quit- 
ting the  room  directly. 

Sir  Oliv.    Nay,  sir 

Jos.  Surf.  Sir,  I  insist  on  't !  —  Here,  William  ! 
show  this  gentleman  out.  Since  you  compel  me,  sir, 
not  one  moment  —  this  is  such  insolence. 

[Going  to  push  him  out. 


242  SHERIDAN'S   COMEDIES. 


Enter  CHARLES  SURFACE. 

Chas.  Surf.  Heyday !  what 's  the  matter  now  ? 
What  the  devil,  have  you  got  hold  of  my  little  broker 
here  ?  Zounds,  brother,  don't  hurt  little  Premium. 
What 's  the  matter,  my  little  fellow  ? 

Jos.  Surf.    So  !  he  has  been  with  you  too,  has  he  ? 

Chas.  Surf.    To  be  sure,  he  has.     Why,  he  's  as 

honest  a  little But  sure,  Joseph,  you  have  not 

been  borrowing  money  too,  have  you  ? 

Jos.  Surf.  Borrowing !  no !  But,  brother,  you 
know  we  expect  Sir  Oliver  here  every 

Chas.  Surf.  O  Gad,  that 's  true  !  Noll  must  n't  find 
the  little  broker  here,  to  be  sure. 

Jos.  Surf.    Yet  Mr.  Stanley  insists 

Chas.  Surf.    Stanley  !  why  his  name  's  Premium. 

Jos.  Surf.    No,  sir,  Stanley. 

Chas.  Surf.   No,  no,  Premium. 

Jos.  Surf.   Well,  no  matter  which  —  but 

Chas.  Surf.  Ay,  ay,  Stanley  or  Premium,  't  is  the 
same  thing,  as  you  say ;  for  I  suppose  he  goes  by 
half  a  hundred  names,  besides  A.  B.  at  the  coffee- 
house. \Knocking. 

Jos.  Surf.  'Sdeath  !  here  's  Sir  Oliver  at  the  door. 
—  Now  I  beg,  Mr.  Stanley 

Chas.  Surf.    Ay,  ay,  and  I  beg  Mr.  Premium 

Sir  Oliv.    Gentlemen 

Jos.  Surf.    Sir,  by  Heaven  you  shall  go  ! 

Chas.  Surf.    Ay,  out  with  him,  certainly ! 

Sir.  Oliv.    This  violence 

Jos.  Surf.    Sir,  't  is  your  own  fault. 

Chas.  Surf.   Out  with  him,  to  be  sure. 

\JBothforcing  Sir  Oliver  out. 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR   SCANDAL.  243 


Enter  SIR  PETER  and  LADY  TEAZLE,  MARIA,  and 
ROWLEY. 

Sir  Peter.  My  old  friend,  Sir  Oliver — hey! 
What  in  the  name  of  wonder — here  are  dutiful 
nephews  — assault  their  uncle  at  a  first  visit ! 

Lady  Teaz.  Indeed,  Sir  Oliver,  't  was  well  we 
came  in  to  rescue  you. 

Row.  Truly  it  was  ;  for  I  perceive,  Sir  Oliver, 
the  character  of  old  Stanley  was  no  protection  to  you. 

Sir  Oliv.  Nor  of  Premium  either  :  the  necessities 
of  the  former  could  not  extort  a  shilling  from  that 
benevolent  gentleman ;  and  with  the  other  I  stood  a 
chance  of  faring  worse  than  my  ancestors,  and  being 
knocked  down  without  being  bid  for. 

Jos.  Surf.    Charles  ! 

Chas.  Surf.   Joseph  ! 

Jos.  Surf.    'T  is  now  complete  ! 

Chas.  Surf.   Very. 

Sir  Oliv.  Sir  Peter,  my  friend,  and  Rowley  too  — 
look  on  that  elder  nephew  of  mine.  You  know  what 
he  has  already  received  from  my  bounty  ;  and  you 
also  know  how  gladly  I  would  have  regarded  half  my 
fortune  as  held  in  trust  for  him :  judge  then  my  dis- 
appointment in  discovering  him  to  be  destitute  of 
truth,  charity,  and  gratitude  ! 

Sir  Peter.  Sir  Oliver,  I  should  be  more  surprised 
at  this  declaration,  if  I  had  not  myself  found  him  to 
be  mean,  treacherous,  and  hypocritical. 

Lady  Teaz.  And  if  the  gentleman  pleads  not  guilty 
to  these,  pray  let  him  call  me  to  his  character. 

Sir  Peter.  Then,  I  believe,  we  need  add  no  more  : 
if  he  knows  himself,  he  will  consider  it  as  the 
most  perfect  punishment  that  he  is  known  to  the 
world. 


244  SHERIDAN'S   COMEDIES. 

Chas.  Surf.    If  they  talk   this   way   to   Honesty, 

what  will  they  say  to  me,  by  and  by  ?          [Aside. 

[SiR  PETER,  LADY  TEAZLE,  and  MARIA  retire. 

Sir  Oliv.  As  for  that  prodigal,  his  brother 
there 

Chas.  Surf.  Ay,  now  comes  my  turn :  the  damned 
family  pictures  will  ruin  me  !  [Aside. 

Jos.  Surf.  Sir  Oliver  —  uncle,  will  you  honour  me 
with  a  hearing? 

Chas.  Surf.  Now,  if  Joseph  would  make  one  of 
his  long  speeches,  I  might  recollect  myself  a 
little.  [Aside. 

Sir  Oliv.  I  suppose  you  would  undertake  to  justify 
yourself  entirely  ?  [To  JOSEPH  SURFACE. 

Jos.  Surf.    I  trust  I  could. 

Sir  Oliv.  [To  CHARLES  SURFACE.]  Well,  sir!  — 
and  you  could  justify  yourself  too,  I  suppose  ? 

Chas.  Surf.    Not  that  I  know  of,  Sir  Oliver. 

Sir  Oliv.  What !  Little  Premium  has  been  let  too 
much  into  the  secret,  I  suppose  ? 

Chas.  Surf.  True,  sir ;  but  they  were  family  se- 
crets, and  should  not  be  mentioned  again,  you  know. 

Row.  Come,  Sir  Oliver,  I  know  you  cannot  speak 
of  Charles's  follies  with  anger. 

Sir  Oliv.  Odds  heart,  no  more  I  can ;  nor  with 
gravity  either.  —  Sir  Peter,  do  you  know  the  rogue 
bargained  with  me  for  all  his  ancestors  ;  sold  me 
judges  and  generals  by  the  foot,  and  maiden  aunts 
as  cheap  as  broken  china. 

Chas.  Surf.  To  be  sure,  Sir  Oliver,  I  did  make  a 
little  free  with  the  family  canvas,  that 's  the  truth 
on  't.  My  ancestors  may  rise  in  judgment  against 
me,  there  's  no  denying  it ;  but  believe  me  sincere 
when  I  tell  you  —  and  upon  my  soul  I  would  not  say 
so  if  I  was  not  —  that  if  I  do  not  appear  mortified  at 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL.      24$ 

the  exposure  of  my  follies,  it  is  because  I  feel  at  this 
moment  the  warmest  satisfaction  in  seeing  you,  my 
liberal  benefactor. 

Sir  Oliv.  Charles,  I  believe  you.  Give  me  your 
hand  again  :  the  ill-looking  little  fellow  over  the 
settee  has  made  your  peace. 

Chas.  Surf.  Then,  sir,  my  gratitude  to  the  original 
is  still  increased. 

Lady  Teaz.  [Advancing.']  Yet,  I  believe,  Sir  Oliver, 
here  is  one  whom  Charles  is  still  more  anxious  to  be 
reconciled  to.  [Pointing  to  MARIA. 

Sir  Oliv.  Oh,  I  have  heard  of  his  attachment 
there  ;  and,  with  the  young  lady's  pardon,  if  I  con- 
strue right  —  that  blush 

Sir  Peter.    Well,  child,  speak  your  sentiments  ! 

Mar.  Sir,  I  have  little  to  say,  but  that  I  shall 
rejoice  to  hear  that  he  is  happy ;  for  me, — whatever 
claim  I  had  to  his  affection,  I  willingly  resign  to  one 
who  has  a  better  title. 

Chas.  Surf.    How,  Maria ! 

Sir  Peter.  Heyday  !  what 's  the  mystery  now  ?  — 
While  he  appeared  an  incorrigible  rake,  you  would 
give  your  hand  to  no  one  else  ;  and  now  that  he 
is  likely  to  reform  I  '11  warrant  you  won't  have  him  ! 

Mar.  His  own  heart  and  Lady  Sneerwell  know 
the  cause. 

Chas.  Surf.   Lady  Sneerwell ! 

Jos.  Surf.  Brother,  it  is  with  great  concern  I  am 
obliged  to  speak  on  this  point,  but  my  regard  to 
justice  compels  me,  and  Lady  SneerwelPs  injuries 
can  no  longer  be  concealed.  \Opens  the  door. 

Enter  LADY  SNEERWELL. 

Sir  Peter.  So  !  another  French  milliner  !  Egad,  he 
has  one  in  every  room  in  the  house,  I  suppose ! 


246  SHERIDAN'S   COMEDIES. 

Lady  Sneer.  Ungrateful  Charles !  Well  may  you 
be  surprised,  and  feel  for  the  indelicate  situation 
your  perfidy  has  forced  me  into. 

Chas.  Surf.  Pray,  uncle,  is  this  another  plot  of 
yours  ?  For,  as  I  have  life,  I  don't  understand  it. 

Jos.  Surf.  I  believe,  sir,  there  is  but  the  evidence 
of  one  person  more  necessary  to  make  it  extremely 
clear. 

Sir  Peter.  And  that  person,  I  imagine,  is  Mr. 
Snake.  —  Rowley,  you  were  perfectly  right  to  bring 
him  with  us,  and  pray  let  him  appear. 

Row.   Walk  in,  Mr.  Snake. 

Enter  SNAKE. 

I  thought  his  testimony  might  be  wanted :  however, 
it  happens  unluckily,  that  he  comes  to  confront  Lady 
Sneerwell,  not  to  support  her. 

Lady  Sneer.  A  villain !  Treacherous  to  me  at 
last !  Speak,  fellow,  have  you,  too,  conspired  against 
me  ? 

Snake.  I  beg  your  ladyship  ten  thousand  pardons : 
you  paid  me  extremely  liberally  for  the  lie  in  ques- 
tion ;  but  I  unfortunately  have  been  offered  double 
to  speak  the  truth. 

Sir  Peter.  Plot  and  counter-plot,  egad  !  I  wish 
your  ladyship  joy  of  your  negotiation. 

Lady  Sneer.  The  torments  of  shame  and  disap- 
pointment on  you  all !  [  Going. 

Lady  Teaz.  Hold,  Lady  Sneerwell  —  before  you 
go,  let  me  thank  you  for  the  trouble  you  and  that 
gentleman  have  taken,  in  writing  letters  from  me  to 
Charles,  and  answering  them  yourself ;  and  let  me 
also  request  you  to  make  my  respects  to  the  scan- 
dalous college  of  which  you  are  president,  and 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL.      247 

inform  them  that  Lady  Teazle, 'licentiate,  begs  leave 
to  return  the  diploma  they  granted  her,  as  she 
leaves  off  practice,  and  kills  characters  no  longer. 

Lady  Sneer.  You,  too,  madam !  —  provoking  —  in- 
solent !  May  your  husband  live  these  fifty  years  ! 

[Exit. 

Sir  Peter.    Oons  !  what  a  fury  ! 

Lady  Teaz.    A  malicious  creature,  indeed  1 

Sir  Peter.    Hey  !  not  for  her  last  wish  ? 

Lady  Teaz.    Oh,  no  ! 

Sir  Oliv.  Well,  sir,  and  what  have  you  to  say 
now? 

Jos.  Surf.  Sir,  I  am  so  confounded,  to  find  that 
Lady  Sneervvell  could  be  guilty  of  suborning  Mr. 
Snake  in  this  manner,  to  impose  on  us  all,  that  I 
know  not  what  to  say :  however,  lest  her  revengeful 
spirit  should  prompt  her  to  injure  my  brother,  I  had 
certainly  better  follow  her  directly.  For  the  man 
who  attempts  to  —  [Exit. 

Sir  Peter.    Moral  to  the  last  drop  1 

Sir  Oliv.  Ay,  and  marry  her,  Joseph,  if  you  can. 
Oil  and  Vinegar !  —  egad,  you  '11  do  very  well 
together. 

Row.  I  believe  we  have  no  more  occasion  for*  Mr. 
Snake  at  present. 

Snake.  Before  I  go,  I  beg  pardon  once  for  all,  for 
whatever  uneasiness  I  have  been  the  humble  instru- 
ment of  causing  to  the  parties  present. 

Sir  Peter.  Well,  well,  you  have  made  atonement 
by  a  good  deed  at  last. 

Snake.  But  I  must  request  of  the  company,  that  it 
shall  never  be  known. 

Sir  Peter.  Hey  !  —  what  the  plague  !  —  are  you 
ashamed  of  having  done  a  right  thing  once  in  your 
life? 


248  SHERIDAN'S   COMEDIES. 

Snake.    Ah,  sir,  consider  -Ljjive  by  the  badness  of 

.  my  character ;  I  have  nothing  but  my  infamy  to  de- 

,  pend  on !  and,  if  it  were  once  known  that  I  had  been 

I  betrayed  into  an  honest  action,  I  should  lose  every 

friend  I  have  in  the  world. 

Sir  Oliv.  Well,  well — we  '11  not  traduce  you  by 
saying  anything  in  your  praise,  never  fear. 

[Exit  SNAKE. 

Sir  Peter.    There  's  a  precious  rogue  ! 

Lady  Teaz.  See,  Sir  Oliver,  there  needs  no  persua- 
sion now  to  reconcile  your  nephew  and  Maria. 

Sir  Oliv.  Ay,  ay,  that 's  as  it  should  be,  and,  egad, 
we  '11  have  the  wedding  to-morrow  morning. 

Chas.  Surf.    Thank  you,  dear  uncle. 

Sir  Peter.  What,  you  rogue !  don't  you  ask  the 
girl's  consent  first? 

Chas.  Surf.  Oh,  I  have  done  that  a  long  time  —  a 
minute  ago  —  and  she  has  looked  yes. 

Mar.  For  shame,  Charles  !  —  I  protest,  Sir  Peter, 
there  has  not  been  a  word 

Sir  Oliv.  Well,  then,  the  fewer  the  better ;  may 
your  love  for  each  other  never  know  abatement. 

Sir  Peter.  And  may  you  live  as  happily  together  as 
Lady  Teazle  and  I  intend  to  do ! 

Chas.  Surf.  Rowley,  my  old  friend,  I  am  sure  you 
congratulate  me ;  and  I  suspect  that  I  owe  you 
much. 

Sir  Oliv.   You  do,  indeed,  Charles. 

Row.  If  my  efforts  to  serve  you  had  not  succeeded, 
you  would  have  been  in  my  debt  for  the  attempt ;  but 
deserve  to  be  happy  and  you  overpay  me. 

Sir  Peter.  Ay,  honest  Rowley  always  said  you 
would  reform. 

Chas.  Surf.  Why,  as  to  reforming,  Sir  Peter,  I  '11 
make  no  promises,  and  that  I  take  to  be  a  proof  that 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR   SCANDAL.  249 

I  intend  to  set  about  it.  But  here  shall  be  my  monitor 
—  my  gentle  guide.  —  Ah  !  can  I  leave  the  virtuous 
path  those  eyes  illumine  ? 

Though  thou,  dear  maid,  shouldst  waive  thy  beauty's  sway, 

Thou  still  must  rule,  because  I  will  obey  : 

An  humble  fugitive  from  Folly  view, 

No  sanctuary  near  but  Love  and  you  :  [  To  the  audience. 

You  can,  indeed,  each  anxious  fear  remove, 
For  even  Scandal  dies,  if  you  approve. 


EPILOGUE. 

BY   MR.   COLMAN. 
SPOKEN   BY   LADY  TEAZLE. 

I,  WHO  was  late  so  volatile  and  gay, 

Like  a  trade-wind  must  now  blow  all  one  way, 

Bend  all  my  cares,  my  studies,  and  my  vows, 

To  one  dull  rusty  weathercock  —  my  spouse  ! 

So  wills  our  virtuous  bard  —  the  motley  Bayes 

Of  crying  epilogues  and  laughing  plays ! 

Old  bachelors,  who  marry  smart  young  wives, 

Learn  from  our  play  to  regulate  your  lives ; 

Each  bring  his  dear  to  town,  all  faults  upon  her  — 

London  will  prove  the  very  source  of  honour, 

Plunged  fairly  in,  like  a  cold  bath  it  serves, 

When  principles  relax,  to  brace  the  nerves : 

Such  is  my  case  ;  and  yet  I  must  deplore 

That  the  gay  dream  of  dissipation  's  o'er. 

And  say,  ye  fair !  was  ever  lively  wife, 

Born  with  a  genius  for  the  highest  life, 

Like  me  untimely  blasted  in  her  bloom, 

Like  me  condemn'd  to  such  a  dismal  doom  ? 

Save  money  —  when  I  just  knew  how  to  waste  it ! 

Leave  London  —  just  as  I  began  to  taste  it! 

Must  I  then  watch  the  early  crowing  cock, 
The  melancholy  ticking  of  a  clock ; 
In  a  lone  rustic  hall  forever  pounded; 
With  dogs,  cats,  rats,  and  squalling  brats  surrounded  ? 
250 


THE   SCHOOL  FOR   SCANDAL.  2$  I 

With  humble  curate  can  I  now  retire, 

(While  good  Sir  Peter  boozes  with  the  squire,) 

And  at  backgammon  mortify  my  soul, 

That  pants  for  loo,  or  flutters  at  a  vole  ? 

Seven  's  the  main  !     Dear  sound  that  must  expire. 

Lost  at  hot  cockles  round  a  Christmas  fire ; 

The  transient  hour  of  fashion  too  soon  spent, 

Farewell  the  tranquil  mind,  farewell  content ! 

Farewell  the  plumed  head,  the  cushion 'd  tete, 

That  takes  the  cushion  from  its  proper  seat ! 

That  spirit-stirring  drum  !  —  card  drums  I  mean, 

Spadille  —  odd    trick  —  pam  —  basto  —  king   and 

queen ! 

And  you,  ye  knockers,  that,  with  brazen  throat, 
The  welcome  visitors'  approach  denote ; 
Farewell  all  quality  of  high  renown, 
Pride,  pomp,  and  circumstance  of  glorious  town ! 
Farewell !  your  revels  I  partake  no  more, 
And  Lady  Teazle's  occupation  's  o'er ! 
All  this  I  told  our  bard ;  he  smiled,  and  said  't  was 

clear, 

I  ought  to  play  deep  tragedy  next  year. 
Meanwhile  he  drew  wise  morals  from  his  play, 
And  in  these  solemn  periods  stalk'd  away :  — 
"  Bless'd  were  the  fair  like  you  ;  her  faults  who  stopp'd 
And  closed  her  follies  when  the  curtain  dropp'd ! 
No  more  in  vice  or  error  to  engage, 
Or  play  the  fool  at  large  on  life's  great  stage." 


NOTES. 

THE  RIVALS 
PREFACE. 

"  FADED  ideas  float  in  the  fancy  like  half- forgotten  dreams; 
and  the  imagination  in  its  fullest  enjoyments  becomes  suspicious 
of  its  offspring,  and  doubts  whether  it  has  created  or  adopted." 

This  passage  was  quoted  by  Burgoyne,  in  the  preface  of  the 

*  Heiress.'     The    same   thought    is   to   be    found   also   in    the 

*  Autocrat  of  the  Breakfast  Table,'  where  Dr.  Holmes  said,  "I 
never  wrote  a  line  of  verse  that  seemed  to  me  comparatively 
good,  but  it  appeared  old  at  once,  and  often  as  if  it  had  been 
borrowed."     A  little  earlier  in  the  same  chapter,  the  Autocrat 
had  declared  the  law  which  governs  in  such  cases  :  "  When  a 
person  of  fair  character  for  literary  honesty  uses  an  image  such 
as  another  has  employed  before  him,  the  presumption  is  that  he 
has  struck  upon  it  independently,  or  unconsciously  recalled  it, 
supposing  it  his  own." 

"  It  is  not  without  pleasure  that  I  catch  at  an  opportunity  of 
justifying  myself  from  the  charge  of  intending  any  national 
reflection  in  the  character  of  Sir  Lucius  O'Trigger." 

In  his  'Retrospections  of  the  Stage,'  John  Bernard,  who  was 
present  at  the  unfortunate  first  performance  of  the  '  Rivals,'  has 
declared  that  the  audience  was  indifferent  to  Sir  Lucius,  as 
acted  by  Lee.  When  the  play  was  revised,  Clinch  took  the 
part.  Why  any  one  should  object  to  Sir  Lucius,  it  is  now  diffi- 
cult to  discover.  Sir  Lucius  is  one  of  the  best  of  stage-Irishmen, 
and  he  is  emphatically  an  Irish  gentleman. 
253 


254  TffE  RIVALS. 

ACT  I. 

SCENE  I. 

"  Thomas.  —  But  pray,  Mr.  Fag,  what  kind  of  a  place  is  this 
Bath  ?  " 

It  is  not  easy  now  to  understand  fully  the  extraordinary 
brilliancy  of  Bath  after  Beau  Nash  had  organized  society  there. 
The  manners  and  customs  of  Bath,  as  they  were  a  very  few 
years  before  the  date  of  the  '  Rivals,'  may  be  seen  in  Anstey's 
'New  Bath  Guide,'  first  published  in  1766;  and  Anstey's  lively 
verses  prove  that  the  town  offered  unusual  advantages  to  the 
social  satirist  and  the  comic  dramatist.  In  '  Humphrey  Clinker,' 
Smollett  has  left  us  an  elaborate  description  of  the  place  and  the 
people  to  be  met  there.  Foote's  comedy,  the  '  Maid  of  Bath,' 
was  a  dramatic  setting  of  the  romantic  story  of  Miss  Linley, 
Sheridan's  wife.  The  best  account  of  Bath  at  this  time  is  to  be 
found  in  a  French  book,  A.  Barbeau's  '  Une  Ville  d'Eaux  Ang- 
laise '  (Paris:  Picard,  1904). 

SCENE  II. 

"Lydia. — And  could  not  you  get  the  '  Reward  of  Constancy '  ?  " 
Miss  Lydia  Languish  seems  to  have  had  a  catholic  taste  in 
fiction.  Most  of  the  books  she  sought  were  novelties :  the 
'  Mistakes  of  the  Heart '  and  the  '  Tears  of  Sensibility '  were 
translations  from  the  French,  published  in  1773.  The  '  Delicate 
Distress  '  and  the  '  Gordian  Knot '  had  been  published  together 
in  four  volumes  in  the  same  year.  The  '  Memoirs  of  a  Lady  of 
Quality '  (i.e.  Lady  Vane)  were  included  in  Smollett's  '  Pere- 
grine Pickle,'  published  first  in  1 75 1 ;  '  Humphrey  Clinker '  did 
not  appear  till  1771.  The  'Sentimental  Journey'  had  been 
originally  published  in  1 768,  in  two  volumes. 

"  Lydia.  —  Here,  my  dear  Lucy,  hide  these  books." 
Miss  Languish  was  evidently  fond  of  Smollett.     After  '  Pere- 
grine Pickle,'  with  its  '  Memoirs  of  a  Lady  of  Quality,'  and  after 
'  Humphrey  Clinker,'  comes  '  Roderick  Random,'  published  in 


NOTES.  255 

1748.  The  *  Innocent  Adultery'  was  the  second  title  of 
Southerne's  tragedy,  the  'Fatal  Marriage,'  revived  as  'Isa- 
bella ;  or,  the  Fatal  Marriage,'  for  Mrs.  Siddons,  after  Sheridan 
became  the  manager  of  Drury  Lane  Theatre.  A  century  ago 
English  plays  were  read  as  French  plays  are  still.  Henry 
Mackenzie's  'Man  of  Feeling'  had  first  appeared  in  1771. 
Mrs.  Chapone's  '  Letters  on  the  Improvement  of  the  Mind,' 
addressed  to  her  niece,  had  been  published  in  1773  in  two 
volumes;  and  Lord  Chesterfield's  'Letters,'  written  in  1768, 
had  not  been  given  to  the  world  until  1774.  From  notes  found 
by  Moore,  we  know  that  Sheridan  had  begun  to  draft  a  criticism 
of  Lord  Chesterfield's  precepts  just  before  he  sat  down  resolutely 
to  the  writing  of  this  play. 

"  Mrs.  Mai.  —  'T  is  safest  in  matrimony  to  begin  with  a  little 
aversion." 

With  a  readiness  recalling  Sheridan's  own  promptness  in 
repartee,  George  Canning  quoted  this  assertion  of  Mrs.  Mala- 
prop's,  in  a  speech  delivered  in  the  House  of  Commons  in  1825. 

"  Sir  Anthony.  —  Well,  I  must  leave  you." 

The  traditional  business  of  Sir  Anthony's  departure  requires 
him  to  bow  and  gain  the  door,  and  then  to  return  to  say  the 
next  clause  as  though  it  had  just  occurred  to  him.  This  leave- 
taking,  protracted  by  Mrs.  Malaprop's  elaborate  courtesies,  is 
repeated  two  or  three  times  before  Sir  Anthony  finally  takes 
himself  off. 

"  Lucy.  —  And  a  black  padusoy." 

Paduasoy  was  a  particular  kind  of  silk  stuff,  deriving  its  name 
from  the  Italian  town  Padua,  and  the  French  word  soie,  silk. 

ACT   II. 
SCENE  I. 

"Fag.  —  I  beg  pardon,  sir  —  I  beg  pardon  —  but,  with  sub- 
mission, a  lie  is  nothing  unless  one  supports  it.  Sir,  whenever 


256  THE  RIVALS. 

I  draw  on  my  invention  for  a  good  current  lie,  I  always  forge 
indorsements  as  well  as  the  bill." 

This  use  of  mercantile  technicalities  was  not  uncommon  with 
Sheridan  ;  and  Fag's  idioms  may  be  compared  with  Sir  Peter 
Teazle's  declaration  ('  School  for  Scandal,'  Act  II.,  Scene  II.) 
that  he  "  would  have  law  merchant,"  for  those  who  report  what 
they  hear,  so  that,  "in  all  cases  of  slander  currency,  whenever 
the  draw  of  the  lie  was  not  to  be  found,  the  injured  parties 
should  have  a  right  to  come  on  any  of  the  indorsers." 

"  Enter  Faulkland." 

Faulkland  is  the  name  of  two  prominent  characters,  a  father 
and  a  son,  in  the  '  Memoirs  of  Miss  Sidney  Biddulph,'  the  novel 
written  by  Mrs.  Frances  Sheridan  ;  but  neither  of  them  in  any 
way  resembles  this  Faulkland  of  her  son's. 

"  Acres.  —  My  hair  has  been  in  training  some  time." 

Here  Acres  removes  his  cap,  and  shows  his  side-curls  in 
papers.  After  his  next  speech,  he  turns  his  back  to  the  audi- 
ence to  show  his  back-hair  elaborately  dressed. 

"Acres.  —  Damns  have  had  their  day." 

In  his  '  History  of  the  English  Stage  '  (v.  461),  the  Rev.  Mr. 
Geneste  quotes  an  epigram  of  Sir  John  Harrington's,  quite  per- 
tinent here  :  — 

"  In  elder  times,  an  ancient  custom  was 
To  swear,  in  weighty  matters,  by  the  mass  ; 
But  when  the  mass  went  down,  as  old  men  note, 
They  sware,  then,  by  the  cross  of  this  same  groat  ; 
And  when  the  cross  was  likewise  held  in  scorn, 
Then  by  their  faith  the  common  oath  was  sworn  ; 
Last  having  sworn  away  all  faith  and  troth, 
Only  God  damn  them  is  their  common  oath. 
Thus  custom  kept  decorum  by  gradation, 
That  losing  mass,  cross,  faith,  they  find  damnation." 


NOTES.  257 

"  Sir  Anthony.  —  What 's  that  to  you,  sir  ?  " 

The  alleged  likeness  of  Sir  Anthony  to  Smollett's  Matthew 
Bramble  is  very  slight  indeed.  Sheridan's  treatment  of  Sir 
Anthony  in  this  scene  and  in  the  contrasting  scene  in  the  next 
act  is  exquisite  comedy.  In  these  two  scenes  is  to  be  found  the 
finest  writing  in  the  play.  The  present  scene  may  be  compared 
with  one  somewhat  similar  between  Mrs.  Linnet  and  Miss 
Linnet  in  the  first  act  of  Foote's  *  Maid  of  Bath.' 

"  Sir  Anthony.  —  Like  the  bull  in  Cox's  Museum." 
Cox's  Museum  was  a  popular  and  fashionable  exhibition  of 
natural  and  mechanical  curiosities.  There  are  many  allusions  to 
it  in  contemporary  literature.  In  '  Evelina,'  for  instance,  pub- 
lished in  1778,  three  years  after  the  '  Rivals'  was  written,  Miss 
Burney  takes  her  heroine  to  Cox's  Museum  and  describes  some 
of  the  many  marvels  it  must  have  contained. 

SCENE  II. 

"  Fag.  —  We  will  —  we  will.     [Exeunt  severally.]  " 
The  traditional  business  here  is  for  Fag  to  parody  the  exit  of 
Sir  Lucius  just  before,  calling  Lucy,  kissing  her,  saying,  "  I  '11 
quiet  your  conscience,"  and  then  making  his  exit,  humming  the 
tune  he  has  just  caught  from  Sir  Lucius. 

ACT   III. 
SCENE  III. 

"  Mrs.  Mai.  —  Oh,  it  gives  me  the  hydrostatics  to  such  a 
degree.  —  I  thought  she  had  persisted  from  corresponding  with 
him;  but,  behold,  this  very  day,  I  have  interceded  another  let- 
ter from  the  fellow ;  I  believe  I  have  it  in  my  pocket." 

As  Mrs.  Malaprop,  Mrs.  John  Drew  used  first  to  take  from  her 
pocket  the  letter  of  Sir  Lucius  and  then  discovering  her  mis- 
take to  produce  with  much  difficulty  and  in  great  confusion  the 
letter  which  Capt.  Absolute  recognizes  at  once.  (See  'The 
Autobiography  of  Joseph  Jefferson,'  pp.  400-401.) 


258  THE  RIVALS. 

"  Lydia.  —  O  heavens  !     Beverley  !  " 

Lydia  Languish  has  been  called  a  second  edition  of  Colman's 
Polly  Honeycombe;  but  the  charge  has  only  the  slightest 
foundation.  It  would  have  been  more  difficult  to  evolve  Lydia 
from  Polly  than  to  have  made  her  out  of  nothing.  If  a  proto- 
type must  be  found  for  Lydia,  it  had  better  be  sought  in  the 
Niece  in  Steele's  '  Tender  Husband.'  In  Steele's  play,  the  rela- 
tions of  the  Aunt  and  the  Niece  are  not  unlike  those  of  Mrs. 
Malaprop  and  Lydia;  and  we  are  told  that  the  Niece  "has 
spent  all  her  solitude  in  reading  romances,  her  head  is  full  of 
shepherds,  knights,  flowery  meads,  groves,  and  streams  (Act  I., 
Scene  I.).  And  she  anticipates  Lydia  in  thinking  that  "  it  looks 
so  ordinary,  to  go  out  at  a  door  to  be  married.  Indeed  I  ought 
to  be  taken  out  of  a  window,  and  run  away  with  "  (Act  IV., 
Scene  I.).  It  may  be  noted,  also,  that  the  lover  of  Steele's  airy 
heroine  visits  her  in  disguise  and  makes  love  to  her  before  the 
face  of  the  Aunt. 

SCENE  IV. 

"Acres  [practising  a  dancing  step]. — These  outlandish 
heathen  allemandes  and  cotillons  are  quite  beyond  me.  I 
shall  never  prosper  at  'em,  that's  sure.  Mine  are  true-born 
English  legs.  They  don't  understand  their  curst  French  lingo." 

In  his  *  History  of  the  English  Stage,'  Geneste  recalls  a 
parallel  passage  in  the  *  Wasps '  of  Aristophanes,  where  the  old 
man,  on  being  desired  to  put  on  a  pair  of  Lacedemonian  boots, 
endeavours  to  excuse  himself  by  saying  that  one  of  his  toes  is  a 
sworn  enemy  to  the  Lacedemonians. 

"Acres.  — That 's  too  civil  by  half." 

In  the  writing  of  the  challenge  most  actors  of  Acres  indulge 
in  "gags  "  beyond  the  bounds  of  all  decency,  and  until  comedy 
sinks  into  clowning.  Mr.  Joseph  Jefferson  refuses  to  make  the 
judicious  grieve  by  saying,  "to  prevent  the  confusion  that 
might  arise  from  our  both  undressing  the  same  lady,"  and 
other  vulgarities  of  that  sort,  retaining,  however,  the  subtler  jest 


NOTES.  259 

of  Acres's  pause  and  hesitation  when  he  comes  to  the  word 
"  company,"  of  his  significant  whisper  in  the  ear  of  Sir  Lucius, 
and  of  Sir  Lucius's  prompt  solution  of  the  orthographical  prob- 
lem, —  "  With  a  <r,  of  course  !  " 

ACT   IV. 
SCENE  II.    . 

"  Mrs.  Malaprop.  —  Caparisons  don't  become  a  young 
woman." 

Here  Mrs.  Malaprop  comes  very  near  to  Dogberry's  "  com- 
parisons are  odorous "  ('  Much  Ado  About  Nothing.'  Act 
IIL,  Scene  V.).  Perhaps  the  earliest  use  of  the  phrase  is  in 
'The  Posies  of  George  Cascoigne '  (1575),  where  we  find, 

Since  all  comparisons  are  odious." 

ACT  V. 

SCENE  I. 

"  Faulkland.  —  Julia,  I  have  proved  you  to  the  quick  !  " 
Moore  considers  that  this  scene  was  suggested  by  Prior's 
ballad  of  the  'Nut-brown  Maid,'  and  so  indeed  it  may  have 
been,  although  Prior's  situation  is  very  different  from  Sheridan's. 
In  the  'Nut-brown  Maid,'  the  high-born  lover  conceals  his 
rank,  approaches  his  mistress  in  various  disguises,  and  at  last 
tests  her  love  by  a  tale  of  murder,  like  Faulkland's.  She  stands 
the  test  like  Julia.  Then  the  lover  confesses  the  trick  and  re- 
veals his  rank,  whereat  the  maid  is  joyful.  The  point  of  Sheri- 
dan's more  dramatic  situation  is  in  the  recoil  of  Faulkland's 
distrustful  ingenuity  on  his  own  head,  and  the  rejection  of  his 
suit  by  Julia,  so  soon  as  he  declares  his  fraud. 

"  Lydia.  —  How  often  have  I  stole  forth,  in  the  coldest  night 
in  January,  and  found  him  in  the  garden,  stuck  like  a  dripping 
statue." 

In  his  notes  to  his  own  translation  of  Horace,  Sir  Theodore 
Martin  drew  attention  to  the  likeness  of  this  speech  of  Lydia's 


260  THE  RIVALS. 

to  the  lines  in  the  Tenth  Ode  of  the  Third   Book,  in  which 
Horace  adjures  a  certain  Lyce  to  take  pity  on  him. 

"  You  would  pity,  sweet  Lyce,  the  poor  soul  that  shivers 
Out  here  at  your  door  in  the  merciless  blast. 

"  Only  hark  how  the  doorway  goes  straining  and  creaking, 

And  the  piercing  wind  pipes  through  the  trees  that  surround 
The  court  of  your  villa,  while  black  frost  is  streaking. 
With  ice  the  crisp  snow  that  lies  thick  on  the  ground ! 

******* 
"Yet  be  not  as  cruel  —  forgive  my  upbraiding  — 

As  snakes,  nor  as  hard  as  the  toughest  of  oak; 
Think,  to  stand  out  here,  drenched  to  the  skin,  serenading 
All  night  may  in  time  prove  too  much  of  a  joke." 

SCENE  II. 
"  Absolute.  —  Really,  sir,  you  have  the  advantage  of  me." 

Captain  Absolute  is  the  son  of  a  long  line  of  light  and  lively 
heroes  of  comedy,  and  the  father  of  a  line  almost  as  long. 
Foremost  among  his  ancestors  is  the  inventive  protagonist  of 
Foote's  '  Liar,'  and  foremost  among  his  progeny  is  the  even 
more  slippery  young  man  in  Boucicault's  *  London  Assurance,' 
who  ventures  to  deny  his  father  in  much  the  same  fashion  as 
Captain  Absolute. 

SCENE  III. 
"  Acres.  —  By  my  valour  !  " 

By  a  hundred  devious  ways,  Bob  Acres  traces  his  descent 
from  that  other  humorous  coward,  Sir  Andrew  Aguecheek;  and 
the  duels  into  which  both  gentlemen  enter  valiantly  are  not 
without  a  certain  highly  comic  resemblance. 

"  Sir  Lucius.  —  I  'm  told  there  is  very  snug  lying  in  the 
Abbey." 

This  reference  is,  of  course,  to  the  Abbey  church,  at  Bath,  in 
which  Sarah  Fielding,  the  sister  of  the  novelist,  is  buried. 


NOTES.  26l 


THE   SCHOOL   FOR   SCANDAL. 

ACT  I. 

SCENE  I. 

"  Lady  Sneer.  —  The  paragraphs,  you  say,  Mr.  Snake,  were  all 
inserted  ?  " 

In  the  original  draft  of  this  scene,  now  in  the  possession  of 
the  Sheridans  of  Frampton  Court,  Dorchester,  the  person  with 
whom  Lady  Sneerwell  is  conversing  is  a  Miss  Verjuice,  and  it 
is  only  later  in  the  scene,  after  the  entrance  of  Joseph  Surface, 
that  we  find  a  reference  to  "  Snake,  the  Scribbler."  In  revis- 
ing the  scene,  Sheridan  found  that  one  character  might  suffice 
for  the  minor  dirty  work  of  the  plot ;  and  to  this  character  he 
gave  the  dialogue  of  Miss  Verjuice  and  the  name  of  Snake. 
The  name  Sneerwell  is  to  be  found  in  Fielding's  '  Pasquin.' 

"  Servant.  —  Mr.  Surface." 

In  '  A  Journey  to  Bath,'  an  unacted  comedy  by  Mrs.  Frances 
Sheridan,  three  acts  of  which  are  preserved  in  the  British 
Museum  (MS.  25,  975),  there  is  a  Mrs.  Surface,  "  one  who  keeps 
a  lodging-house  at  Bath."  She  is  no  relation  to  either  of  the 
Surfaces  in  the  'School  for  Scandal';  yet  it  may  be  worth 
noting  that  she  is  a  scandal-monger  who  hates  scandal.  See 
Mr.  W.  Fraser  Rae's  edition  of  '  Sheridan's  Plays  as  he  wrote 
them'  (London:  Nutt,  1902).  'A  Journey  to  Bath'  is  also 
included. 

SCENE  II. 

"  Rowley.  —  Oh,  Sir  Peter,  your  servant !  " 

Rowley  is  one  of  the  many  faithful  stewards,  frequent  in 
comedy.  Perhaps  the  first  of  them  was  Trusty  in  Steele's 
'  Funeral.' 


262  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL. 


ACT  II. 

SCENE  I. 
"Sir  Peter.  —  And  three  powdered  footmen  before  your  chair." 

In  1777,  when  Sheridan  wrote,  only  people  of  the  highest 
position  and  fashion  made  their  footmen  powder  their  hair;  so 
Sir  Peter  is  here  reproaching  Lady  Teazle  with  her  exalted 
ambitions. 

"  Sir  Peter.  —  You  were  content  to  ride  double,  behind  the 
butler  on  a  docked  coach-horse." 

Professor  Ward,  in  his  '  History  of  English  Dramatic  Litera- 
ture,' draws  attention  to  a  parallel  passage  in  Fletcher's  '  Noble 
Gentleman'  (Act  II.,  Scene  I.),  in  which  Marine  threatens  to 
take  his  fashionable  wife  home  again  :  — 

"  Make  you  ready  straight, 

And  in  that  gown  which  you  first  came  to  town  in, 
Your  safe-cloak,  and  your  hood  suitable, 
Thus  on  a  double  gelding  shall  you  amble, 
And  my  man  Jaques  shall  be  set  before  you." 

"Sir  Peter.  —  Ay  —  there  again  —  taste  !  Zounds!  madam, 
you  had  no  taste  when  you  married  me  !  " 

It  seems  as  though  John  G.  Saxe  may  have  remembered  this 
speech  of  Sir  Peter's  when  he  wrote  his  epigram,  '  Too  Candid 
by  half':  — 

"  As  Tom  and  his  wife  were  discoursing  one  day 
Of  their  several  faults,  in  a  bantering  way, 

Said  she :  '  Though  my  wit  you  disparage, 
I  'm  sure,  my  dear  husband,  our  friends  will  attest 
This  much,  at  the  least,  that  my  judgment  is  best.' 
Quoth  Tom :  '  So  they  said  at  our  marriage ! '  " 


NOTES.  263 

SCENE  II. 

"  Sir  Benjamin  Backbite  :  — 

"  Sure  never  were  seen  two  such  beautiful  ponies ; 
Other  horses  are  clowns,  but  these  macaronies : 
To  give  them  this  title  I  'm  sure  can't  be  wrong, 
Their  legs  are  so  slim  and  their  tails  are  so  long." 

The  reading  of  this  epigram  by  Sir  Benjamin  Backbite  is  per- 
haps another  of  Sheridan's  reminiscences  of  Moliere;  at  least 
there  is  a  situation  not  unlike  it  in  the  '  Precieuses  Ridicules,' 
in  the  *  Femmes  Savantes,'  and  in  the  '  Misanthrope.'  In  the 
final  quarter  of  the  eighteenth  century,  there  arose  a  species  of 
dandy  called  the  macaroni,  much  as  in  the  final  quarter  of  the 
nineteenth  century  there  arose  a  variety  called  the  dude. 

"  The  Italians  are  extremely  fond  of  a  dish  they  call  macaroni, 
composed  of  a  kind  of  paste;  and,  as  they  consider  this  the 
summum  bonuni  of  all  good  eating,  so  they  figuratively  call 
everything  they  think  elegant  and  uncommon  macaroni.  Our 
young  travellers,  who  generally  catch  the  follies  of  the  countries 
they  visit,  judged  that  the  title  of  macaroni  was  applicable  to  a 
clever  fellow ;  and,  accordingly,  to  distinguish  themselves  as 
such,  they  instituted  a  club  under  this  denomination,  the  mem- 
bers of  which  were  supposed  to  be  the  standards  of  taste.  They 
make  a  most  ridiculous  figure,  with  hats  of  an  inch  in  the  brim, 
that  do  not  cover,  but  lie  upon,  the  head  ;  with  about  two 
pounds  of  fictitious  hair,  formed  into  what  is  called  a  chib, 
hanging  down  their  shoulders,  as  white  as  a  baker's  sack " 
('Pocket-book,'  1773,  quoted  in  Mr.  T.  L.  O.  Davies's  'Supple- 
mentary Glossary').  The  name  of  the  macaroni  is  also  pre- 
served in  the  first  stanza  of  our  '  Yankee  Doodle/  which  is 
almost  contemporaneous  with  Sheridan's  play. 

"  Sir  Peter.  —  A  character  dead  at  every  word,  I  suppose." 

Moore  noted  the  resemblance  of  this  aside  to  Pope's  line,  in 
the  '  Rape  of  the  Lock  ' :  — 

"  At  every  word,  a  reputation  dies." 


264  THE  SCHOOL  FOR   SCANDAL. 

This  scandal  scene  of  Sheridan's  had  predecessors  in  the 
comedies  of  Congreve  and  of  Wycherley,  not  to  go  back  as  far 
as  the  '  Misanthrope  '  of  Moliere.  Hard  and  cruel  as  Sheridan's 
scene  now  seems  to  us,  it  is  gentle  indeed  when  contrasted  with 
the  cudgel-play  of  Congreve  and  Wycherley.  It  is  possible  that 
Sheridan  owed  some  of  his  comparative  suavity  to  the  example 
of  Addison,  who  contributed  to  No.  17  of  the  Spectator •,  a  'Fine 
Lady's  Journal,'  in  which  there  is  a  passage  of  tittle-tattle  more 
like  Sheridan  than  Wycherley  or  Congreve. 

"  Sir  Peter.  —  Yes,  madam,  I  would  have  law  merchant  for 
them  too." 

Geneste,  in  his  '  History  of  the  English  Stage,'  draws  atten- 
tion to  a  parallel  passage  in  the  '  Trinummus '  of  Plautus,  and 
suggests  that  it  would  furnish  a  very  pat  motto  for  this  play :  — 

"  Quod  si  exquiratur  usque  ab  stirpe  auctoritas, 
Unde  quicquid  auditum  dicant,  nisi  id  appareat. 
Famigeratori  res  sit  cum  damno  et  malo : 
Hoc  ita  si  fiat,  publico  fiat  bono. 
Pauci  sint  faxim,  qui  sciant  quod  nesciunt; 
Occlusioremque  habeant  stultiloquentiam." 


ACT  III. 

SCENE  I. 

"  Sir  Peter.  —  But,  Moses  !  would  not  you  have  him  run  out  a 
little  against  the  Annuity  Bill?" 

In  1777  a  committee  of  the  House  of  Commons  was  ap- 
pointed to  inquire  into  the  laws  concerning  usury  and  annui- 
ties; and  on  its  report  in  May,  the  month  in  which  this  play 
was  first  acted,  a  bill  was  brought  in  and  passed,  providing  that 
all  contracts  with  minors  for  annuities  shall  be  void,  and  that 
those  procuring  them  and  solicitors  charging  more  than  ten 
shillings  per  cent  shall  be  subject  to  fine  or  imprisonment. 


NOTES.  265 

"  Sir  Peter.  —  No,  never  !  " 

The  traditional  business  of  the  scene  is  for  Sir  Peter  and 
Lady  Teazle  here  to  take  each  other  by  the  hand  and  to  repeat, 
in  unison,  "  Never  !  never  !  never  !  " 

SCENE  II. 

"  Trip.  —  And  find  our  own  bags  and  bouquets." 
In  the  original  draft  of  the  several  scenes  which  Sheridan 
finally  combined  into   the    '  School  for  Scandal,'  this  phrase, 

*  bags  and  bouquets,'  was  said  to  Sir  Peter  as  he  was  complain- 
ing of  Lady  Teazle's  extravagances.     This  utilization  at  last  of 
a  phrase  at  first  rejected  elsewhere  is  highly  characteristic  of 
Sheridan. 

"  Trip.  —  Or  you  shall  have  the  reversion  of  the  French  velvet." 

Sheridan  has  been  accused,  justly  enough,  of  making  his  ser- 
vants talk  as  their  masters;  but  this  is  an  old  failing  of  writers 
of  comedy,  although  few  of  them  would  have  risked  this  accu- 
rate use  of  the  legal  phraseology  which  Sheridan  at  all  times  af- 
fected. But  there  is  in  Ben  Jonson's  '  Every  Man  in  his  Humour ' 
(Act  III.,  Scene  II.)  a  speech  of  Knowell's  servant,  Brairiworm, 
in  which  we  find  the  very  same  technical  term  as  we  have  in 
the  text :  "  This  smoky  varnish  being  washed  off,  and  three  or 
four  patches  removed,  I  appear  your  worship's  [servant]  in 
reversion,  after  the  decease  of  your  good  father,  Brainworm." 
Sheridan's  Trip  and  Fag  recall  the  amusing  personages  of 

*  High   Life  below  Stairs,'  suggested  by  a  paper  of  Steele's, 

*  On  Servants,'  in  the  Spectator,  No.  88. 

SCENE  III. 

"  Sir  Harry  Bumper  —  Sings." 

It  has  been  asserted  (in  Notes  and  Queries,  5th  S.,  ii.,  245, 
and  elsewhere)  that  Sheridan  derived  this  song  from  a  ballad 
in  Suckling's  play,  the  '  Goblins  ' ;  but  a  careful  comparison  of 
the  two  songs  shows  that  there  is  really  no  foundation  for  the 


266  THE   SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL. 

charge.  The  music  to  Sheridan's  song  was  composed  by  his 
father-in-law,  Thomas  Linley,  who  had  been  his  partner  in  the 
'  Duenna.' 

"  Moses.  —  Oh,  pray,  sir,  consider  !  Mr.  Premium  's  a  gentle- 
man." 

In  Foote's  *  Minor,'  there  is  a  spendthrift  son,  whose  father 
visits  him  in  disguise  to  test  him;  and  in  Foote's  'Arthur,'  a 
father  returns  in  disguise,  and,  to  his  great  delight,  hears  his  son 
disclose  the  most  admirable  sentiments;  but  there  is  no  real 
likeness  between  either  of  Foote's  scenes  and  this  of  Sheridan's, 
the  real  original  of  which  is  perhaps  to  be  found  in  his  mother's 
*  Sidney  Biddulph,'  in  which  an  East  Indian  uncle  returns  to  test 
a  nephew  and  a  niece.  Yet  there  is  possibly  a  slight  resem- 
blance between  "  little  Premium  the  broker,"  and  "  little  Trans- 
fer, the  broker,"  in  the  "  Minor." 

"  Moses.  —  Oh,  yes ;  I  '11  swear  to  't ! " 

An  erring  tradition  authorizes  Moses  to  interpolate  freely  and 
frequently  throughout  the  rest  of  the  scene  a  more  or  less  mean- 
ingless "  I  '11  take  my  oath  of  that."  As  the  part  of  Moses  is 
generally  taken  by  the  low  comedian  who  also  appears  as  Tony 
Lumpkin,  this  gag  may  be  a  reminiscence  of  the  comic  scene  in 
'  She  Stoops  to  Conquer,'  in  which  Tony  offers  to  swear  to  his 
mother's  assertion  that  Miss  Hardcastle's  jewels  have  been 
stolen. 

ACT  IV. 

SCENE  I. 
"  Charles.  —  But  come,  get  to  your  pulpit,  Mr.  Auctioneer." 

The  absurdity  of  an  auction  with  only  one  bidder  has  been 
commented  upon  often,  but  surely  Sheridan  never  intended  the 
auction  to  be  taken  seriously.  The  pretence  of  an  auction  is 
surely  a  freak  of  Charles's  humour  and  high  spirits. 


NOTES.  267 

"Charles. — Well,  here  's  my  great  uncle,  Sir  Richard  Raveline." 
The  *  School  for  Scandal '  was  one  of  the  plays  performed  by 
the  English  actors  on  their  famous  visit  to  Paris  in  1827,  —  a 
visit  which  revealed  the  might  and  range  of  the  English  drama 
to  the  French  and  thereby  served  to  make  possible  the  Roman- 
ticist revolt  of  1830.  Victor  Hugo  was  an  assiduous  follower 
of  the  English  performances;  and  it  may  be  that  this  scene  of 
the  '  School  for  Scandal '  suggested  to  him  the  scene  with  the 
portraits  in  '  Hernani.' 

SCENE  II. 

"  Charles.  —  Be  just  before  you  're  generous." 
In  a  note  to  an  anonymous  pamphlet  biographical  sketch  of 
Sheridan,  published  in  1799,  there  is  quoted  a  remark  of  a  lady 
which  is  not  without  point  and  pertinency :  "  Mr.  Sheridan  is 
a  fool  if  he  pays  a  bill  (of  which,  by  the  by,  he  is  not  accused) 
of  one  of  the  tradesmen  who  received  his  comedy  with  such 
thunders  of  applause.  He  ought  to  tell  them  in  the  words  of 
Charles,  that  he  could  never  make  Justice  keep  pace  with  Gen- 
erosity, and  they  could  have  no  right  to  complain." 

SCENE  III. 
"Joseph.  —  Stay,  stay;  draw  that  screen  before  the  windows  !  " 

It  has  been  often  objected  that  the  hiding  of  Lady  Teazle 
behind  the  screen  put  her  in  full  view  of  the  opposite  neighbour, 
the  maiden  lady  of  so  curious  a  temper;  but  it  must  be  remem- 
bered that  it  is  Joseph  who  makes  this  remark  and  has  the 
screen  set,  and  it  is  Lady  Teazle  who  unwittingly  rushes  to  hide 
behind  it. 

"Joseph.  —  Ah,  my  dear  madam,  there  is  the  great  mistake. 
'T  is  this  very  conscious  innocence  that  is  of  the  greatest  preju- 
dice to  you." 

The  late  Abraham  Hayward,  in  his  '  Selected  Essays '  (i.  400), 
calls  this  "the  recast  of  a  fine  reflection  in  'Zadig,'  "  and  quotes, 


268  THE   SCHOOL  FOR   SCANDAL. 

in  a  foot-note,  Voltaire's  words :  "  Astarte  est  femme,  elle  laisse 
parler  ses  regards  avec  d'autant  plus  d'imprudence  qu'elle  ne 
se  croit  pas  encore  coupable.  Malheureusement  rassuree  sur 
son  innocence,  elle  neglige  les  dehors  necessaires.  Je  trem- 
blerai  pour  elle  tant  qu'elle  n'aura  rien  a  se  reprocher." 

"  Charles  Surface  throws  down  the  screen." 

Boaden,  the  biographer  of  Kemble,  has  the  hyper-ingenuity 
to  discover  in  the  fall  of  the  rug  in  Molly  Seagrim's  bedroom, 
disclosing,  the  philosopher  Square,  in  '  Tom  Jones,'  the  first 
germ  of  the  fall  of  the  screen  in  the  *  School  for  Scandal.' 

"  Sir  Peter.  —  Lady  Teazle,  by  all  that 's  damnable  !  " 

Nowadays  most  Sir  Peters  take  this  situation  to  heart  as 
though  the  'School  for  Scandal '  were  a  tragedy,  but  the  play 
is  a  comedy,  and  this  scene  is,  and  is  meant  to  be,  comic,  and 
not  tragic,  or  even  purely  pathetic.  It  is  the  vanity  rather  than 
the  honour  of  Sir  Peter  in  which  he  feels  the  wound.  If  he  is 
as  deeply  moved  as  Othello,  the  following  speech  of  Charles  is 
unspeakably  heartless  and  brutal;  — and  so,  indeed,  it  is,  as  it 
is  delivered  by  most  comedians. 

ACT  V. 

SCENE  I. 

"  Sir  Oliver.  —  What !  has  he  never  transmitted  to  you  bullion 
—  rupees  —  pagodas  ?  " 

The  rupee  and  the  pagoda  were  coins  current  in  Hindustan. 
The  rupee  is  of  silver  and  is  equivalent  to  about  two  shillings 
sterling.  The  pagoda  was  either  gold  or  silver,  and  its  value 
varied  from  eight  to  nine  shillings  sterling.  The  avadavats 
mentioned  in  an  earlier  speech  are  birds  of  brilliant  plumage. 

SCENE  II. 

"  Sir  Benjamin.  —  By  a  thrust  in  segoon  quite  through  his  left 
side." 


NOTES.  269 

"  Segoon  "  is  a  corruption  of  segunde,  the  Spanish  form  of 
the  French  fencing  term  seconde.  Mr.  Walter  Herries  Pollock 
kindly  gave  me  this  information,  sought  elsewhere  in  vain.  A 
thrust  in  segoon,  he  writes,  is  "  a  thrust  delivered  low,  under 
the  adversary's  blade,  with  the  hand  in  the  tierce  position,  that 
is,  with  the  knuckles  upwards,  and  the  wrist  turned  downwards. 
The  parry  is  now  more  frequently  used  than  is  the  thrust  of 
seconde,  and  is  especially  valuable  in  disarming;  but  the  thrust 
is  very  useful  in  certain  cases,  and  particularly  for  one  form  of 
the  coup  d'arret.  A  lunge  in  seconde  which  goes  through  the 
lung  is  nowadays  an  odd  thing  to  hear  of;  but  such  a  result 
might  come  from  the  blade  of  the  man  using  the  thrust  in 
seconde  being  thrown  upwards  by  a  slip  on  the  adversary's 
blade,  arm,  or  shirt." 

"  Crabtree.  —  From  Salthill,  where  he  had  been  to  see  the 
Montem." 

The  Montem  was  a  triennial  ceremony  of  the  boys  at  Eton, 
abolished  only  in  1847.  ^  consisted  of  a  procession  to  a 
mound  {ad  monteni}  near  the  Bath  Road,  where  they  exacted 
money  from  those  present  and  from  all  passers-by.  The  sum 
collected,  sometimes  nearly  ^1000,  went  to  the  captain  or  senior 
scholar,  and  served  to  pay  his  expenses  at  the  university.  There 
is  an  interesting  account  of  the  Montem  in  '  Coningsby.' 

"  Crabtree.  —  Who  was  just  coming  to  the  door  with  a  double 
letter  from  Northamptonshire." 

Tradition  formerly  authorized  Mrs.  Candour  to  interpolate 
here  a  query  as  to  whether  the  postage  had  been  paid  or  not; 
but  this  seems  to  be  carrying  the  joke  a  little  too  far. 

SCENE  III. 

"  Snake.  —  Ah,  sir,  consider  I  live  by  the  badness  of  my 
character." 

In  the  first  draft  of  the  play  this  speech  of  Snake's  was  in  one 
of  the  earliest  scenes.  The  anonymous  writer  of  a  pamphlet, 


2/0  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL. 

'  Letter  to  Thomas  Moore,  Esq.,  on  the  subject  of  Sheridan's 
"School  for  Scandal'"  (Bath,  1826),  declares  that  "this  is  but 
boyish  composition,  and  quite  too  broad  even  for  farce.  It 
might  have  been  said  to  Snake  by  another,  but  is  out  of  even 
stage-nature  or  stage-necessity,  as  coming  from  himself  "(p.  16). 

EPILOGUE. 

"  So  wills  our  virtuous  bard  the  motley  Bayes." 
Bayes  was  the  hero  of  the  Duke  of  Buckingham's  '  Rehearsal,' 
and  was  a  caricature  of  John  Dryden.    At  the  time  this  epilogue 
was  written  the  '  Rehearsal '  had  not  yet  been  driven  from  the 
stage  by  the  '  Critic.' 

"  Spadille  —  odd  trick  —  parr. —  basto  —  king  and  queen." 
In  the  game  of  ombre,  at  its  height  when  Pope  wrote  the 
f  Rape  of  the  Lock,'  and  still  surviving  when  Colman  wrote  this 
epilogue,  "Spadille"  was  the  ace  of  spades,  "pam"  was  the 
knave  of  clubs,  and  "  basto  "  was  the  ace  of  clubs. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


REC'D  LD 


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LD  21A-40m-ll,'63 


YA  0 


